


Always Miss Something

by Random_Nexus



Series: "I've Got You Under My Skin" - Sherlock BBC-Based AU [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fae & Fairies, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slash, Supernatural Elements, Vampires, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-08-16
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-22 16:29:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 55,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/pseuds/Random_Nexus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John figures out that Sherlock isn't human, but then John isn't entirely human either.</p><p><b>WARNING:</b> WORK IN PROGRESS!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John - Figuring It Out

**Author's Note:**

> This is more of the same AU with Vampire!Sherlock and John, that I never intended to write. *significant throat clearing, glare at Muse* I was actually dreaming some of this, quite vividly, and finally surrendered and started writing.
> 
>  **Please Note:** Since this is a WIP, there may occasionally be reworks and fixes, and long gaps between chapters. I'd suggest not starting this if that will drive you wonkybonkers. I'll try not to torture you too much, even so. ;D

Sherlock Holmes was brilliant, eccentric, occasionally something of a prick, and far too charismatic for someone so consistently rude. John Watson came to all of these conclusions within hours of meeting the man. Oh, also, though some seemed to think him odd-looking, upon consistent study, Sherlock was actually rather attractive. John was soon forced to upgrade ‘rather attractive’ to ‘unusually handsome’ and then, after a few hours, he settled on ‘bloody gorgeous’ and sort of stayed there. By that time, all things considered, John could hardly stop himself from saving the mad genius from himself by shooting the cab-driver about to poison him, nor from moving the rest of his meagre belongings into the flat at 221B Baker Street the very next day.

Perhaps if John had been like anyone else, like others he knew, like his sister Harry, he might have seriously considered that he was crazy when he first entertained the idea that his flatmate might be not be human. Of course, between the PTSD from his military service and the pre-existing issues that had sent him off to join up in the first place, John Watson really wasn’t like anyone else; a fact to which he had long since grown accustomed. So, instead of thinking he had gone insane or that his flatmate was somehow playing some highly-elaborate practical joke, John Watson decided he should wait and see what evidence—for or against his theory—turned up once he was actively watching for it.

It took a few months for John’s bizarre theory to evolve in his mind; months of excitement and danger, of frustration and irritation, of friendship and acceptance. Small things add up, though he knew his conclusion was something—if it was true—that Sherlock would probably have sussed out in a matter of days. Possibly less. But John was no genius, did not observe and deduce with the lightning-swift sweeps of logic that took in a myriad tiny things and re-combined them into a coherent whole that was beautifully obvious only afterwards. No, he had been forced to sort through the confusing feelings his instincts had been sending him, through suspicions and vague notions, and even less concrete clues. At first.

John sat at the little desk in his room, the door closed and locked, cleaning his gun with easy, automatic movements. Muscle-memory required no real supervision from his higher functions and he wanted to make certain it was in proper working order. Downstairs, his flatmate was lying upon the sofa, having just spent almost five days going non-stop on a case of murder that had been lacking a rather key ingredient: a corpse. 

Sherlock had flopped upon the sofa, telling—he rarely _asked_ —John to draw the curtains and get some sleep. John hadn’t asked if Sherlock was going to bed, as he slept on the sofa as often as he slept in his bed, but he had offered to get Sherlock something before he, John, went up to bed; asked if he wanted tea or a bowl of instant soup or one of the other quickly-made things he would deign to let John talk him into having to sustain him till a real meal could be had. A lazy wave of one pale hand, long fingers graceful, always graceful, told John both ‘no’ and that he was dismissed. 

Normally John would have left him to it for the rest of the night, knowing Sherlock would probably eat something in the morning, but they’d had a bit of a rough night. The killer—Gerald Talbot—had led them on a wild chase long before Lestrade and his people had arrived at Talbot’s hiding place. John had barely been able to keep up with Sherlock, the taller man’s stamina and speed were just amazing, but a dead-end alley turned things in their favour. A flurry of _something_ had occurred just before John caught up with Sherlock and Talbot. 

Sherlock had hunched forward and stumbled back into the nearby brick wall with a grunt, Talbot had turned as if he would run away, but John blocked his path. Moments later, too worried about Sherlock to be as careful as he should have been, John had Talbot in an effective hold on the ground and unconscious. He stopped himself at the last minute from snapping Talbot’s neck, knowing the man was meant to face legal justice, and Lestrade would likely be exceedingly unhappy if that didn’t happen. 

But Sherlock seemed alright when John hurried to him after Talbot was out cold, the detective insisted he was unhurt, dismissed what John had seen as Talbot’s having got in a surprise gut-punch, and gave John a long searching look. Fairly certain he had done nothing that would seem out of the ordinary for an ex-soldier, his brief murderous impulse entirely internal, John merely looked back expectantly. Flashing lights at the end of the alley and the subsequent arrival of Lestrade and his people had turned Sherlock and John’s attention at that point; the next few hours had been boring beyond belief, but expected. 

What had moved John to pull out his gun and break it down for a thorough cleaning, had brought John to thinking long and deeply on things he had been more recently paying attention to, was what he had found when he crept down to check on his flatmate. Just a feeling—he often had them—that maybe something wasn’t quite right, moved John to go down and just ‘have a quick look’ at Sherlock. 

Still lying on the sofa, apparently asleep, the man didn’t stir at John’s approach—an indicator that he was either deeply asleep or all was not well, as Sherlock was usually frighteningly aware, even when he seemed oblivious—and when John delicately pulled aside the folds of Sherlock’s dark suit jacket, following the faint scent of blood that lingered about the sleeping detective, he found a dark-stained patch on the silky fabric of his button-down. Pale skin flashed beneath the rent in Sherlock’s shirt when John caught the slightly stiffer portion of the fabric in thumb and forefinger to move it. Glancing up at Sherlock’s face, finding the dark crescents of his eyelashes still resting against his impossible cheekbones, John returned his attention to gingerly spreading open the seven or eight centimetre tear—no, it was a cut—to find a faint smear of what was surely blood on the smooth skin beneath. Dried blood. Though it was dim in the room, John had fairly good night vision and should have spotted a cut, if only due to the contrast between the fair skin and the dark red of a wound; however, what he did find was a scar. Fresh scar tissue formed a slight ridge exactly the right length and angle to have been a cut made by whatever sliced through Sherlock’s shirt. Hours ago. Only hours ago Talbot had slashed at Sherlock’s stomach—no, not ‘at’, he had definitely impacted, as John remembered the grunt and stumble as Sherlock fetched up against the wall—and now Sherlock had a scar that looked a week old, if not more.

Replacing Sherlock’s clothing as he’d found it, rising and moving quietly by habit, John was standing in the middle of his bedroom a few minutes later without any memory of climbing the stairs. Facts he’d not really registered, at first, now whirled in his head; observations he had unconsciously brushed aside were queuing up rapidly to remind him why he’d become suspicious in the first place; ideas he hadn’t even allowed to fully form taking very troublesome shape; and now here was proof that all the little things he’d been unable to avoid noticing actually meant something. But what? John watched horror and science fiction films, he certainly knew his cinema lore if not his historical lore—and yet everything he could come up with didn’t wholly match. Conflicting details kept him from reaching a definite conclusion, yet couldn’t stop him thinking such an insane thing in the first place. But, what _was_ Sherlock, then? And what should John do about it? 

So, there he was, gun perfectly in order and ready, spare magazines and a box of bullets on the desk, and John sitting there deciding what to do next. If he loaded the gun and went down there, it would have to be with the absolute conviction that he could end up shooting Sherlock. One did not load a gun without understanding exactly what one planned to do with a device ultimately meant for a very definite purpose: killing. Not if one wasn’t a fool. 

Considering all that he didn’t know, all that could conceivably happen the moment he actually decided to pull the trigger, John pursed his lips and hesitated only a moment before choosing the hollow-points. He might only get one shot and it would have to count.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated 11/08/12


	2. Sherlock - Unexpected Wake-up Call

Sherlock was drowsily aware of a presence, but his instincts had already identified it as John and no threat, so he didn't make any particular effort to achieve full wakefulness. When his brain was fully engaged, he sometimes took issue with this arbitrary decision his subconscious had made, because he had not known John long enough, or thoroughly enough, to come to that decision logically; however, grumble as he would, some deeply-buried part of him had stubbornly stuffed Dr. John Watson into the ‘safe’ file in his brain’s hard-drive. That file currently held exactly two other people, both of whom were family members.

“It’s John. Don’t move,” said the man Sherlock’s animal brain had determined to be harmless to him. On the last word, something cold, hard and metallic came to rest just under the angle of Sherlock’s jaw. Gun. Recently cleaned. He inhaled, subtly gathering himself to move, but John pressed the gun a little more firmly into his skin. “Please. Don’t. Hollow-point rounds, safety off, finger on the trigger, and I’m understandably a fair bit tense.” 

Tense? Sherlock’s senses were rousing—belatedly—and he could hear John’s heartbeat, his breathing, which were both more rapid than resting rate, but not as wild as one would expect. Of course, he knew John didn’t handle stress and tension like most people; if anything he was steadier and calmer in dangerous or stressful situations, rather than otherwise. So, he was prepared to react to whatever Sherlock might do. A few seconds of thought and Sherlock had answered a dozen of the questions anyone else would have asked, realised much of what John must have come to on his own, and then recalled a vague awareness of John checking on him a while ago. Ah. Conclusion reached. 

“What do you wish to know?” He asked, speaking slowly and quietly. A bullet to the base of his brain would very likely be fatal, or debilitating enough as makes no difference.

“What are you?” To the point, no hesitation; obviously John had thought about this before he committed himself. He was beyond Sherlock’s head, on the other side of the sofa arm, his breath very slightly stirring Sherlock’s hair and his arm snaked around the front of the sofa to press the gun to Sherlock’s head.

“Simple answer or complicated answer?” Perhaps he could buy time enough to allow John to relax somewhat. 

“Simple answer’ll do for now.” A few more deep breaths from John marked the time, he was keeping himself on edge, not allowing himself to relax when nothing happened immediately. Damn.

“You won’t believe me.” Well, probably not. John remained silent, his expression out of Sherlock’s line of sight. His scent, however, was very present, very strong; he always smelled warm and vividly-alive and _interesting_. Just now, however, it was making Sherlock so very hungry. Finally, seeing John wasn’t going to be led into a conversation, Sherlock sighed with every drop of _ennui_ he could infuse into a simple exhalation. “The simplest term, then, would be ‘Vampire’.”

No snort, no laugh, no derisive insistence that he was full of shit. Damn again. After almost a full minute, the gun not shifting in any way, John asked in a very flat tone, “What were your intentions toward me?”

Unable not to huff out an aborted almost-chuckle, highly aware of the cold metal against his skin, Sherlock drawled truthfully, “I originally intended that we split the cost of this flat, perhaps become friends to a degree, but as you well know I’ve found you extremely useful in my work. Also, at least prior to this moment in time, I had thought perhaps that we actually _had_ become friends, oddly enough.” The odd bit was that it was actually quite true; in point of fact, a small portion of himself that he rarely ever encountered was just now reporting back that he was a little hurt and affronted. Triple damn. “You may be wondering at this point if I had ever planned to tell you what I was,” Sherlock added when John said nothing, and his tone was a bit more bitter than he had meant it to be. “I can’t say conclusively that I would have done, but I suspect you may be one of the few whom I might have _considered_ telling.” 

John exhaled, not wholly steadily, and the breeze of it passed over Sherlock’s face, telling him that John had drunk some tea within the last few hours, had a biscuit with it, and that he had not yet brushed his teeth for the night. He was meticulous in his habits and, once he decided to go to bed, his teeth would be minty-fresh soon after. The irrelevant observation irritated Sherlock, as well as making a hollow little ache in his centre. 

The faintest shift of movement against the couch told Sherlock that John must be kneeling, his good knee on the floor, no doubt, and pressed up against the base of the sofa. The man holding the gun to his throat spoke after that slight shift of position. “If I put the gun away, pack my kit and go, promising to never breathe a word of any of this to any living soul, will you let me live?”

Sherlock was aware that John didn’t say ‘will you let me go’, because they both knew by now that he could let John go and then probably find him just about anywhere if he really wanted to do so. The logical thing would be to tell him what he wanted to hear, lead him into a false sense of security, and then kill him. Here or elsewhere. Some of the ache that gnawed at him was regret, but much of it was self-directed disdain; why had he thought this could work? Anyone clever enough not to bore him to death in a matter of hours or days would eventually notice _something_ , for God’s sake! He was lucky that John hadn’t just shot him already. It was what Sherlock would have done, once he had gained the answer to his most burning questions. But still… he didn’t _want_ to kill John. Even now. 

“I shouldn’t.” The words were meant to be something else, but apparently even Sherlock wasn’t always in total control. He frowned, amending it with, “but yes. Yes, I will let you live.”

“I shouldn’t let you live, either,” John murmured, not quite as if to himself. “Best tactic would be to fool me into relaxing and then killing me as soon as the gun’s no longer a threat.”

“True.” There was no practical purpose to feeling a trickle of pride at the reminder of John’s cleverness, and Sherlock sneered at himself inwardly. Was he _that_ desperate for the regular relief of boredom that John’s unique mix of ordinary and extraordinary traits had provided? _That_ eager to hold on to one of the few _interesting_ mortals he had encountered in far too long? What… wait… unique, interesting… bloody hell! Sherlock couldn’t stop the faint growl that rose up in his throat. He _always_ missed _something_! John’s breathing hitched, his heartbeat speeding up the slightest degree, and Sherlock forced the growl down to speak more normally. “Perhaps you might answer a question for _me_ , John.”

“If I can,” John replied simply. 

“What, exactly, are _you_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated 11/08/12


	3. John – Not Precisely Détente

John had rather expected Sherlock to eventually ask—honestly, he’d expected it long before—though he had, obviously, hoped his lesser oddities would somehow slide by. He had been slowly losing his edge of tension and focus, hoping with probably foolish optimism that neither of them would have to die, but he tightened up again as he cleared his throat.

“I don’t really know,” John replied solemnly, not expecting to be believed.

“While the simple answers are excellent for brevity,” Sherlock said in a rumbling drawl, “I believe it’s glaringly clear that mine brings far more to the table than yours, John.” 

“I’m…” Trailing off, resisting the strong urge to apologise, John sighed almost silently. “I’m not being coy or difficult, Sherlock, I genuinely don’t know.” Hating the situation, more due to Sherlock’s actually being far more cooperative than he had ever expected, John considered for a long scattering of heartbeats and then said, “I don’t suppose we could declare a truce?”

“Despite the fact that I’m fairly certain shoving a gun into your flatmate’s neck runs contrary to most etiquette guidelines, I am willing to agree to a temporary truce.” Spoken in an even lower, slower version of his usual mellifluous voice, Sherlock’s words made John huff out the briefest bit of an amused breath as he removed his finger from the trigger. 

Realising his mistake a fraction of a second later, John was only aware of Sherlock beginning to move, of his own reactions—always, _always_ faster in a crisis than anyone he had ever encountered—being just the tiniest bit too slow as he felt Sherlock’s cool hand wrenching the gun away from his neck, grip nearly crushing John’s fingers. It hurt to twist free, only just able to keep the gun as he rolled backward, nearly throwing himself across the room; he needed space to allow enough time to gain his feet. In less than a second he had his feet under him again, and could have fired semi-blindly and hit, but in the instant he took to be sure _exactly where_ to aim, the moment had gone and he was impacting hard against the wall behind him. The wall shuddered, several unknown things fell, John’s right heel sank very slightly into the wall, his left elbow doing the same a little deeper, and he was belatedly aware that Sherlock had been controlling his impact subtly to keep John’s head from making a third divot in the hideous wallpaper. One hand was fast around his throat, the other caught in his belt, holding much of his weight and pinning him firmly to the wall.

Some might have begged for mercy, some might have snarled or cursed, but John had started this with the full expectation that one of them might die before the scenario played out; he merely waited, unable not to quickly assess the fact that he was not seriously damaged in any way, and that the gun still in his hand was caught between them, business end pressed into Sherlock’s stomach.

Whatever Sherlock had expected, he wasn’t getting it, if his face was anything to go by. John saw a frown of confusion and displeasure, no… no, this was that look he got when he was sorting something new and interesting out. Something that wasn’t cooperating with his efforts to deduce it. His eyes… John felt a chill roll through him… it was unsettling to see those pale eyes gone dark, the pupils enlarged far beyond what was possible—for a human—leaving only a fine rim of ice gray around a bottomless well of black. 

“You hesitated, John,” Sherlock said, his voice growlingly low and rough, as if a big frightening beast with claws and teeth was hidden inside him somewhere, doing the talking through Sherlock’s arresting face. He slowly loosened the hand at John’s throat, though not enough to allow him to come down off his tip-toes, and asked mere centimetres from John’s face, “Why?”

Drawing in a quick breath, John was, again, truthful. “I don’t really want to kill you.”

“Why not?” Simple, straightforward, and so, so very dangerous a question. 

John closed his eyes, knowing his own pupils would be preternaturally huge—though not to the extent Sherlock’s were—and swallowed the first answer before dredging up a second, trying for distraction. “You could’ve killed me, too.” 

Making a face as though he had a sour taste in his mouth, Sherlock growled, “It’s obvious that I have no wish to kill you, either.”

“Works for me,” John murmured, and couldn’t believe himself a moment later. What, really, what was wrong with him? However, he felt the uneven pattern of Sherlock’s exhale and opened his eyes to find a slight, surprised hint of a smile just fading from Sherlock’s lips and the rim of gray around his pupils increased noticeably. A little alarmed at himself, but following his instincts, John asked cautiously, “So, now that we’ve established that we’re both able to kick each other’s arses but don’t actually _want_ to, can we go back to the truce thing?”

“I don’t want to _kill_ you, John, but that doesn’t preclude… ‘kicking your arse’, as you put it.” Sherlock slowly let him down onto his own feet, but kept him pressed against the wall, hand still wrapped around John’s throat. “That was monumentally foolish. If you face another of my kind in future, do _not_ hesitate. They will not, I promise you.”

John nodded as much as he was able. “Duly noted.”

Leaning in further, Sherlock nearly buried his face into the side of John’s head, sniffing deeply of his hair, his ear, and shifting his fingers so he could very nearly run the tip of his nose along John’s neck. Swallowing thickly, feeling goosebumps chase themselves all over his skin, John actually tried to press further back into the wall. God, the waft of Sherlock’s breath across his ear should _not_ make him think the thoughts it did; his libido seemed to be entirely ignoring current events in favour of the manner in which John would have reacted to Sherlock’s breath in his ear and on his neck previously. Dark curls brushing against John’s face, a few strands catching in his mouth, Sherlock tugged John’s t-shirt collar aside and… _licked_ … the tiny hint of sweat at the base of John’s throat. The air left John’s lungs and took its sweet time returning again.

“You smell and taste… essentially human… but…” The timbre of that growling voice was just a bit devastating, vibrating through John’s skin as Sherlock spoke so close to John’s neck that his lips made soft ghost-touches that were only fractionally more solid than his breath. “There’s something more there. I don’t recognise it.”

“What… what’re you doing?” The fact that his voice didn’t crack made John a bit irrationally proud of himself. He tried to will his body to as much obedience as his voice was providing, but if Sherlock kept on with what he was doing, that might be a lost hope.

“One of the myths about vampires,” Sherlock replied, voice still not back to normal, the growl informing each sound, but slowly fading. “Sharper senses. It’s true. Scent, sound, taste… what you _are_ is in your cells, your skin, your sweat…” Leaving the sentence unfinished, his mouth hovered—John could almost feel the shape of his lips, those perfect bow-shaped lips, not quite touching his skin—directly over the throbbing current of blood running through his carotid artery. Exhaling unevenly, Sherlock added in a whisper, “your blood.”

For the life of him, John could not breathe; the mental image of Sherlock’s teeth sinking into his skin, of those cool, graceful fingers peeling away the layers between them… hauling his brain away from the image like snatching up a cat by its scruff, John tried not to sound like he was panting as he floundered for the first thing that came to his stupidly distracted mind. “Does that mean… do you actually drink blood, then?”

“It does,” Sherlock confirmed, lifting his head, eyes only slightly less alien than before, and he parted his lips, looking almost annoyed to have to do so, and John saw the almost-dainty points of bright white where his canine teeth had apparently elongated notably. “Though, contrary to common myth, I don’t suck the blood up through my teeth.” 

John knew, incontrovertibly, that he was entirely mad. Discovering for certain that Sherlock was a vampire—of some kind—should have frightened him far more than it had done, and seeing his eyes and teeth so obviously altered, so inhumanly different, should have been shocking, terrifying. Certainly it was unsettling… disconcerting… he felt a bit dizzy with the shift of perspective in his reality, but… considering he, himself had been just a little bit inhuman most of his adult life? No. This was more fascinating than frightening, more amazing than appalling, and didn’t deter John for more than a few moments from wanting to know more. 

“Not the reaction I’m used to receiving,” Sherlock commented softly, shifting his fingers slightly to rest them over the rhythm of John’s pulse. He was studying John intently, had perhaps never quite stopped, though John could not deny he had been a bit distracted from noticing. More than a bit. Further words brought John’s attention back to the moment. “I suppose you would be less likely to panic than most, being that you aren’t precisely… normal.” Tilting his head, pupils still gradually shrinking, Sherlock's voice sounded only a bit gravelly now, a deeply rough-edged version of his usual. Half-closing his eyes, he inhaled again, exhaling through his mouth; tasting the air he had just taken in. “Which brings us back to the question of what you _are_ , John Watson.”

“I told you—“ John started to speak, but Sherlock cut him off impatiently.

“That you didn’t know, yes, I _was_ listening. Something of a captive audience, in fact.” He arched one dark eyebrow. “Do you think the gun is actually serving any purpose at this point?”

“Probably not.” Through sheer force of habit, John gave Sherlock an annoyed look. “Of course, I’d have put it away a bit ago if I could’ve _moved_ it.”

Instead of answering annoyance, or amusement, Sherlock looked a bit thrown, as if that was not on the list of possible responses, and he looked down as if he genuinely had not realised that he had trapped John’s arm in position between the wall and his own body. An instant later he was a handspan away, the gun—and John’s hand—in his grasp. Belatedly, John unclenched his fingers, bringing his hand up to carefully massage it with the other. It was already aching, but there seemed no indication of anything being broken or actually _damaged_. 

“Hollow-point rounds, indeed,” Sherlock muttered, holding the magazine, not fully ejected, in one palm. “Nasty, these.”

“Effective,” John said reflexively, but he refused to apologise. Sherlock nodded, shoving the magazine home and flicking the safety on before handing it to John. Pointedly, John then cleared the weapon, removing the single bullet that was in the chamber. “Always check,” he said, because he knew Sherlock had nicked his gun previously and didn’t care for the idea of any accidental shootings. Deliberate shootings... well, that remained to be seen, apparently.

Echoing John’s words earlier, Sherlock said, “duly noted,” as he nodded, catching John’s eye to show that he had used the words deliberately. “Will there _be_ an ‘always’, then?”

Blinking a few times rapidly, John was a bit floored. “I don’t… I hardly think that’s up to me, is it?”

“Isn’t it?” Sherlock turned and walked with slow, almost sauntering, steps toward the kitchen. His back was to John for more than enough time to flick off the safety and shoot. At this range, they both knew full well that John could not miss a perfect head-shot. A show of confidence? Trust? Blind stupidity?

John realised he was gripping the gun tightly, painfully tightly, down at his side, barrel aimed at the floor. Heart pounding. His weak hand trembling. Some part of him had decided the danger was over, just like that, but Sherlock was in no way stupid, and he did not trust easily, though he had far more confidence than any single person ought to, really; so, what did it mean?

“Come along, John, whatever you are, I know a large portion of your biology is dependent upon regular infusions of tea.” Sherlock’s dry tones accompanied his adding water to the kettle before putting it on the hob. 

The sheer mundanity of those actions, unlike being flung against the wall and _licked_ by an actual _vampire_ , made John’s knees go a bit jellyish. Leaning back against the wall for a few extra seconds, wanting to be sure he wouldn’t stumble like a drunkard, John finally walked perfectly normally into the kitchen and sank down upon his usual chair. 

It occurred to John, as he watched Sherlock take down the tin of teabags and deposit one each into John’s cup and his own, despite the surreal feeling of what had happened thus far, that he was more than half certain that he didn’t want to wake up and find that this had all been a bizarre dream.

He wasn’t sure what to think about this conclusion, but didn’t dwell on it long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated 11/08/12


	4. Sherlock - Information Exchange

By the time John had a cup of tea in front of him, having watched warily throughout the process as Sherlock prepared it, the man was at least 30% calmer. Either he had no clear idea how close he had come to having Sherlock’s newly-revealed fangs in his throat, or he was ridiculously trusting of someone whom he had just been holding at gunpoint. Sherlock alighted upon a chair, not really up to the pacing he might prefer to be doing; he had expended more energy than was wise in his condition to defend himself, and to prove a point, but it had been necessary. 

Turning his back on John had been a calculated risk, but his calculations were very rarely wrong.

John’s questions were written all over his face before he ever spoke, though the man frustratingly held off long enough to sip his tea and chew on his questions a little more. Almost at the point Sherlock was ready to snap at him to just get on with it, John finally licked his lips and asked, “so, about half the usual myths are rubbish, are they? You eat and drink, obviously

“Obviously.” That brief dismissal delivered coolly, Sherlock leaned forward, still watching John’s every slightest twitch. “Now, you. You’ve somehow kept your… secret… from me all this time. You claim you don’t _know_ what you are?”

Shaking his head, John looked uncomfortable. Embarrassed? Worried? No… reluctant to discuss it, of course, but there was something more, something just a little too amorphous for Sherlock to _quite_ grasp it. He may have somehow missed it before, but he would not miss anything now. 

“I genuinely do not know, Sherlock,” John finally said in a firm, earnest tone, lifting his eyes to meet Sherlock’s without flinching. Despite what he had seen a few minutes before. “I know the symptoms of it—for lack of a better term—but why or what? No idea.” Shaking his head, he looked down at his tea once more, but he didn’t remain quiet. “Were you… born as you are now or was it something like in the films? Did someone _turn_ you, or whatever term would be proper?”

“Born.” He watched the automatic conjecture pass across John’s generally very expressive face, no doubt he was thinking of Mycroft and reassessing his impressions of the elder Holmes brother. “You?”

John shrugged, shoulders lifting and fingertips leaving his cup briefly. “I must’ve been born this way, nothing else I’m aware of can explain it.” 

“Speed, strength, at least some improved vision,” Sherlock tried to recall everything he knew from tonight and then cast himself back to the things he ought to have put together previously. “Improved healing, too, I’d say.” John nodded at each pause, sipping his tea again with slow, easy motions, though Sherlock could practically _hear_ him thinking. John’s brows lifted with his gaze at this last and Sherlock tilted his head challengingly. “Your limp was psychosomatic, but the wound in your shoulder wasn’t, and yet you’ve been regaining mobility and dexterity quite rapidly.”

“Some people do heal quickly, you know,” John pointed out, but even he obviously knew it was a token deflection and sighed, nodding.

“You’ve never allowed me to see it—not intentionally—which I took at first to be self-consciousness or modesty, then just sensitivity about a potentially ugly scar.” He studied every slightest twitch of John’s features. “At first it may have been because we hardly knew one another, but once you were aware that I would notice unusually rapid changes, you continued pretending to be self-conscious.” John sighed again, but didn’t deny it. “How many times have you been hurt worse than you let on?”

“I could ask you the same question,” countered John, one corner of his mouth pulling into something very like a smile, but not really borne of amusement. 

“What I _should_ have asked, long before now, is how you managed to keep up those times I didn’t mind myself as I ought to have done in the excitement of the chase,” Sherlock mused a bit bitterly. A thought occurred to him. “Do you have the ability to _make_ others trust you?”

John actually chuckled at this, shaking his head and looking at Sherlock as if he’d said something silly. “God, no. Do you think I’d be invalided out on a pension if I could get people to do what I wanted?”

Frowning, Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You’d be back over there, wouldn’t you?” A nod from John, his mouth a straight line, jaw clenched. “Mycroft was right. Or partially right.” Odd blue eyes, brown swirled unevenly around the pupils like a last-minute change of colour-scheme, fixed upon Sherlock with sudden sharp interest. “You don’t miss the _war_ so much as you miss making full use of your skills, miss being _needed_ , and you missed having the opportunity to _hunt_.” The ex-army doctor, soldier, locum GP, and ‘colleague’ to Sherlock Holmes flinched slightly. “Ah… I was right.”

“You’re guessing?” Sounding torn between being offended and reluctantly amused, John leaned back in his chair with a thump. “You’re bloody _guessing_.”

“Did you used to slip out on your own?” Sherlock asked softly, neither confirming nor denying John’s words, watching John trying not to show any reaction. “Eluding your comrades, the perimeter guards, running off to ensure the odds the next day were a little better for our side?” John’s fingers tightened minutely on his cup, a muscle in his jaw bunching. “Did you sabotage equipment or perhaps sneak in and slit a few throats?”

“No!” The word burst out of John as he stood abruptly and fetched up against the kitchen counter with a thump, as if catching himself—not from falling, but from leaving the room—and the look he threw Sherlock told him that John was fully aware Sherlock was a muscle twitch from leaping up and chasing after him if he did so. “No,” he added more quietly, chest still moving more rapidly than necessary. 

Sherlock could smell John, agitated, a light bit of sweat breaking out again; his heart thudding strongly, only a little faster, but so loud. If he watched John closely enough would he see the man’s body sway infinitesimally with each heavy heartbeat? “You don’t mind killing. Not really.” Sherlock almost rose, having to stop himself with a deliberate act of will. “You _do_ mind seeing innocents harmed. You don’t kill lightly, just easily. So… sabotage, then.”

“Weapons misfire all the time,” John said after a long, tense silence, eyes on his cup of tea, which was still upon the kitchen table. “Munitions fail, artillery… even vehicles have bizarre failures. All that sand… I just caused more failures than there would already have been.”

Aware that John was admitting to him what he had quite obviously told no other person, Sherlock spoke barely above a whisper. “Is that how you got shot?” 

John shook his head, not looking up. “They never caught me. No, this?” He gestured vaguely at his shoulder. “It was stupid. I was tending a wounded man… I should’ve dragged him back to cover first, but he was screaming. Scream after scream after scream, as fast as he could draw air…” Shaking his head again, John closed his eyes his voice flat, empty, quiet. “I was so focused on getting the bleeding stopped, on getting some morphine into him, that I wasn’t paying proper attention.” A heavy breath moved John’s chest, gusting out and wafting almost imperceptively toward Sherlock, filling his own next few breaths with tea and _John_. “One of the others ran out to try and get us both under cover, and got shot for it. An armour-piercing round. Went right through Perske and me, both. I only noticed because it knocked me away from what I was doing. I sat back up and kept trying, but the blood-loss had me senseless too soon. Murray organised cover fire and got me out by just throwing me over his shoulder and carrying me. I only vaguely remember anything much afterwards, fever dreams and nonsense. Woke up weeks later in hospital.”

“Weeks?” Sherlock made a noise of comprehension a moment later and murmured, “Infection.” John nodded. “Making it worse than it would have been. Of course.”

“Thing is… since I’ve been doing this?” John gestured at Sherlock and himself, then vaguely off toward the door. “It’s been getting better. Healing faster than before—well, faster than when I first got sent home.” Tilting his head, he gave Sherlock a simple, open look. “And I have not the first idea why.”

Sherlock smirked, not quite allowing himself to smile. “I may.” John’s expression shifted to something somewhere between belief and scepticism; he was used to believing Sherlock, but now he was rethinking everything, if only subconsciously. “Think, John, you’re a doctor. Something being touted of late as some big discovery when it’s been known by true healers for millennia.”

Three times John’s lips parted, a thoughtful frown upon his face, but he didn’t actually speak. He finally returned to his former seat, sinking slowly down into it, looking at Sherlock, but also sort of _through_ him, as well. “You mean, because I’ve been happier living here and helping you than I was when I was first invalided home, that my…” Gesturing briefly, apparently switching what he had been about to say for something else. “That I’m healing like I used to do?” 

“Have you been?” Sherlock asked, almost surprising himself, as that hadn’t been the next thing he had planned to ask. 

“What? Happier?” No, John wasn’t stupid, even if he wasn’t at Sherlock’s level of intellect. Grimacing, looking down at his own hands, once again wrapped around his cup of tea, John nodded slowly. “Yeah… actually, I suppose I have.”

Sherlock considered that piece of information on multiple levels. In theory, then, John had not been wholly his ‘normal’ self when first moving into 221b Baker Street; therefore, Sherlock had not necessarily missed signs he should have noticed, rather those signs were not in evidence at that time. John had been healing in more ways than physically—Sherlock knew that much, having almost ‘cured’ John’s psychosomatic limp—and it had only been recently that there was anything _to_ notice. By which time he had stopped subjecting John to quite the level of scrutiny as when they first took up the flatshare. 

On another level, a part of him deep, deep down was pleased to know John actually had been happy in this life; a life the doctor, himself had deemed ‘mad’ and ‘dangerous’. Oh, Sherlock knew John was addicted to that madness, that danger, and craved it almost as much as the detective did, but feeding an addiction wasn’t the same as being happy. Sherlock knew that far, far too well.

“So…” John spoke into the long pause, clearing his throat when his voice came out a little hoarse. “I thought at first that your sitting here and listening to my rattling on was a good sign, but maybe it’s just you haven’t stopped me because it’s assuaged your curiosity about some things.” He pushed his cup aside and took his hands off of the table, resting them in his lap—where Sherlock supposedly wouldn’t know he was clenching them together till his knuckles creaked. John had always been excellent at composing himself in a dangerous situation, his breathing apparently even and normal; if Sherlock didn’t know him so well, he’d think the man genuinely relaxed. Only he could hear the faster, deeper rhythm of John’s heartbeat now, was learning what it meant.

Sherlock gave him a querying expression, everything in John’s voice and manner saying there was more coming.

“The fact remains that I know what you are,” John murmured thoughtfully. “You said you’d let me live, but did you actually mean it?” He made a sound and added hastily, “and do you still mean it?” 

“If I do, where would you go?” 

John lifted one shoulder. “Depends on your terms, I suppose.”

“Terms?” Sherlock sat up a little straighter. “If I wanted you to leave England, you’d go?”

“I’d sort of have to, wouldn’t I?” He lifted his chin, features settling, body stilling further. “Is that what you want?” 

Oh, there he was, the brave soldier. Sherlock had seen John brace himself like this before; ready to take whatever came and deal with it, whether it be a verbal fight, knives, or bullets. He might have mocked it once upon a time—would still mock most offering this sort of brave front—but he had learned that it was no front. John was, genuinely, one of the bravest men Sherlock had ever met, and he couldn’t mock that in him. He admired it even more now, because he _knew_ John was aware of the fact that Sherlock could kill him, without a gun or a knife, and yet here he was. 

“What I want?” Sherlock rose, languidly plucking up John’s half-emptied cup and taking it to the sink, buying himself just a few more moments to think. To decide. He turned, leaning against the worktop and resting his hands at the edge to either side of his hips. “What if I wanted to make a deal?”

John looked at him expectantly. Cautiously. “What sort of deal?”

Sherlock told the ruthlessly pragmatic portion of himself to stop yammering on about what was safest and most sensible; he was making his decision based upon something on which he had relied more with John Watson than he had with almost anyone else: instinct. It had not led him astray yet, even though it had appeared so at first—his head had not been blown off with that gun, had it?—and there was still so much he wanted to _know_. 

“We continue onward as we have been; only now you know what I am, and I _will_ learn what you are. If it becomes intolerable, for either of us, we renegotiate or part ways—you banished from England and vowing to speak no word of what you know and me remaining here, not hunting you down and killing you so long as you keep your word.”

John held his gaze levelly for nearly a full minute, then looked down at the empty table-top, his thoughts far less apparent on his face than usual. Eventually, he took a long, deep breath and rose from his seat, going to stand in front of Sherlock with his hands at his sides and his back and shoulders straight. For some reason Sherlock did not evaluate, it was rather difficult not to smile.

“Same as we have been?” He licked his lips briefly, eyes falling to Sherlock’s mouth. “No... um…” 

Smiling just a tad crookedly, his fangs having receded a bit by that point, Sherlock shook his head. “No feeding off you against your will, no.” He saw the slightest twitch of John’s brows at the very subtle emphasis Sherlock had placed on ‘will’. “That is a separate matter.”

“And?” John looked a bit sceptical again and Sherlock didn’t blame him. So, he lifted his shoulders and rolled his eyes.

“Fine, you promise not to threaten me with a gun again,” he said as if indulging John, rather than setting a genuine, necessary, parameter. However, he then lowered his voice and let himself show fully serious once more. “You only get the one chance.” 

To his credit, John held his ground, though his eyes widened the merest fraction. He nodded shortly, perhaps not as smoothly as a truly unconcerned man might have. “That seems fair.”

“Then we do have a deal?” Sherlock lifted one brow, tilting his head again.

John continued to hold his gaze for only a moment longer, then nodded once more and held out his hand. Sherlock would have liked to avoid touching him, mainly because a part of him wanted to touch more than was wise, but he took John’s hand, anyway. Warm—no, almost hot in comparison to Sherlock’s—and unflinching, John’s grip was solid and firm. He pumped Sherlock’s hand exactly twice and let go, speaking in his equally solid and firm brave-soldier voice. “Yes, we have a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated 11/08/12


	5. John - Business As Usual

After the confrontation and discussion… as well as the ‘deal’… Sherlock went off to his room with a quiet, ‘Good night, John’ and closed the door. John washed the cups in a bit of a daze, then shut off the lights and went up to his own room. 

The only difference from any other night was that he locked his bedroom door. He only ever locked it when he was going to have a wank or his nightmares had been particularly vicious, which had been vanishingly rare lately. He wasn’t sure if they would return or not, or perhaps be replaced with others featuring Sherlock, but he figured it would be best to be practical.

So, why did he feel guilty locking the door just to sleep? How stupid was that? 

John wasn’t surprised at Sherlock’s absence the next day, or the night after it. He had to admit the breather was actually a relief, but after the relief came the beginnings of concern. 

The day afterwards, having slept with his door locked and strange nightmares waking him every other hour, John decided to blow off his weird mood and legged it to the shops for a few things. When he returned two hours later, he found his flatmate and resident vampire—God, that was still weird enough to make him think he was half crazy—perched at the table in the sitting room, his laptop and John’s before him, typing something in his usual rapid-fire manner. On the table were several take away containers, obviously from a Chinese restaurant, the smell filling the flat with savoury richness. 

“It’s probably still plenty warm enough,” Sherlock said by way of greeting, not looking up from whatever he was typing. One open container with chopsticks sticking out of it sat within easy arm’s reach of Sherlock, and two more—flaps closed, a pair of chopsticks laying atop both—were placed near the chair that John usually used. A fourth sat mid-way between and was open.

Setting the bags down and putting away the perishables gave John a few minutes to think. He wasn’t stupid, other than in comparison to Sherlock, and recognised a gesture of peace when he smelled one. With a casualness that he had to pretend, though a few weeks back it had been second-nature, John ambled over to the table, picking up the chopsticks and popping open the flaps of the two containers. King prawn fried rice in one and gyoza in the other. The container in the middle of the table had what looked like about half an order’s worth of crab rangoons.

“You went to the Phoenix?” John inhaled the smell and couldn’t help sounding pleased. There was a good Chinese restaurant just along Baker Street, but the Phoenix had several things they both liked slightly better; however, it was a bit further away. “Chicken gyoza?”

“Yes and yes,” Sherlock murmured, sounding entirely disinterested. He picked up his own container and levered out a fat dim sum, holding it over his mouth and dropping the whole thing in, chewing as he set the container down again—all of this done without taking his eyes off of his screen. 

“Thanks.” What else could he say? He could hardly refuse, even if he could dredge up a half-decent excuse. God, the smell! He’d been a little peckish on the walk home, but the smell of the food had kicked that little hunger over into a big one. He plucked out one of the gyoza, taking a bite before dropping it back into the container so he could go fetch something to drink. “Water?”

Sherlock made a wordless sound that John knew to be agreement, so he pulled two bottles of water out of the fridge instead of one. Sherlock was eating, either in a show of normalcy or because he was in a good mood. Possibly both. He set the bottle down next to Sherlock’s food container and put his hand on the upper edge of his own laptop, watching Sherlock.

“Done?” He asked. Most of the time, if Sherlock had shanghaied John’s laptop without asking—which was pretty much _always_ —he would just take it back when he wanted it. If they were to go back to ‘normal’, John supposed he ought to do just that, but Sherlock had made a particular effort with the food. He just couldn’t snatch his laptop away under these circumstances.

“Wait,” Sherlock tapped a couple of keys on John’s laptop, used his finger on the pad to steer the cursor a bit, then tapped and nodded. “Done.” He’d emailed himself whatever page he’d been referencing. John nodded and took his laptop with him, sitting down in his chair.

Looking at the site Sherlock had been studying, John sighed. It wasn’t in English, the letters were even different. “Russian?”

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed. He didn’t elaborate. John rolled his eyes, picking out a prawn and a couple of vegetable bits from his rice, then using them to scoop up a little mound of rice, carrying the whole lump to his mouth and chewing with a small sound of approval. Excellent.

“Have a case on?” He asked when his mouth was free.

“Possibly.” Pale eyes on his screen, Sherlock murdered another dumpling, this time taking two bites to do it in. As he was chewing the second half, he looked across at John. “Might mean going to Kingston.”

Taking another bite, John used the time chewing to think. So, this meant he was being asked, in a round-about way, if he was willing to come along, which implied that Sherlock wasn’t sure he would want to do so. Despite his previous doubts and unsettling fears, John still felt that same old excitement for a new case; he was definitely willing. However…

“John?” Sherlock’s voice made John aware that he hadn’t answered. 

He looked up at his flatmate, putting down the food container after stuffing the chopsticks in, and pursed his lips a moment, closing his laptop. John had done some thinking while Sherlock was gone, making him realise a few things. “So, this deal… what if there’s no way to figure out what I am? I don’t know how to convince you I’m telling the truth about not knowing and I don’t really know how to find out or I would’ve done so a long time ago.”

Dark brows lifting, Sherlock murmured, “you don’t think I believed you?”

“No. You didn’t believe me.” John frowned at him. “I know you didn’t.”

“Then why do you suppose I offered the deal?” He leaned far forward and snatched a crab rangoon out of the container in the middle of the table, chopsticks as lightning-fast and sure as if they were attached to his fingers. 

Shaking his head slowly, John watched Sherlock pop the thing into his mouth, the muted crunching so normal and ordinary. “That’s what I can’t figure. The only thing I could think of was you wanted an excuse for us not to try and kill each other, but...” Trailing off, he shook his head again.

“There were a number of other things I might have said, other methods I might have used to effect a truce between us.” This made John nod, though he didn’t speak. Sherlock flipped the chopsticks between his fingers deftly, holding them in his crooked ring finger while he opened his bottle of water. “It bothers you.”

“You know it does.” Making an impatient sound, John frowned at him. “I wish I hadn’t figured it out, actually. I think if you were going to… I don’t know… do something nefarious to me, you would have before now.” 

“That’s not why you needed to see what I would do when confronted, John, and we both know it.” Sherlock’s tone was sure, confident, and his expression coolly knowing.

John looked at his closed laptop, lips tight together for a moment before he shook his head again. “No, it’s not. Not wholly.”

“You needed to see if I would offer violence or reason first. Needed to hear the lie from my lips, in my voice, if I was going to offer one.” His tone went strange, deep and almost lyrical, and a chill ran up John’s spine. “That’s something you’ve almost always caught, John. One of the things I should have looked at more closely. I have almost never been able to successfully lie to you directly, you see through them too easily.”

“Well, you don’t try it often,” John muttered. “Usually about whether or not you’re taking care of yourself, or doing something stupidly dangerous.”

Sherlock’s chuckle was soft and his expression genuinely amused. “You don’t do well lying to me, either, but then _you_ almost _never_ try to.” A hint of smugness crept into his tone. 

“Hardly worth it, considering,” John admitted unashamedly. Sherlock’s observational skills were frighteningly acute and John knew he had a rather transparent face unless he really worked at it. “So… yes. I wanted to know if you were the man I thought—regardless of _what_ you were, or are—and still be prepared to deal with you, if you were… something else.”

Sherlock nodded, confirming that this was what he had expected to hear. “And knowing I let it pass uncontested, you’re bringing it up again.” He made a slight gesture with one hand, tapping the chopsticks together a few times before sticking them back into his mostly-empty container of food. “Really, now. That’s hardly in your best interests, John.”

“Stop it.” Irritated, John tried not to glare, but knew he wasn’t doing well. He’d missed something and Sherlock was amused by it, which was very annoying.

“John…” Sherlock sighed long-sufferingly. “You’re on the right path, you just didn’t go far enough. Look at me, forget what you thought then, and tell me: do I believe you now?” He tilted his head, still holding John’s eyes with his own, and John really, really looked. Let himself remember what it felt like to _know_ Sherlock, to know his tells, his postures and expressions. Disregarding recent events with an effort, John just listened to his instincts and a moment later he relaxed slightly back into his chair. 

“Why do you believe me now when you didn’t that night?” he just _had_ to ask. 

A slow, almost smug smile crept across Sherlock’s mouth. “I wanted to believe you, John, I just didn’t let myself, because I didn’t think it was wise to do so.” His smile widened. “However, your actions since, as well as here and now, have led me back to my originally-preferred conclusion. Meaning I was right in the first place… of course.”

John just stared at him, feeling as though he’d missed something somewhere, again—or still.

“So, Kingston. Yes or no?” Sherlock opened his laptop, tapped some keys, and read something that made one corner of his mouth quirk upward before he looked over at John again.

Making a bit of a frustrated face, John huffed out a breath that wasn’t exactly a sigh, and reached out for one of his food containers. “You’re the genius, then; you tell me.”

Sherlock looked briefly—and happily—surprised before another smirking grin curved his lips. “I’ll just email that we’ll head out in ten minutes or so, shall I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated 11/08/12


	6. Sherlock – Contemplating In The Cab to Kingston

Sherlock had to exert more self-control than it ought to have required to keep his smug smile from returning too often on the long cab ride to Kingston. The logical, sensible thing to do would have been to give John more time to acclimatise to the shift in what he knew of the world, of his flatmate, of the existence of vampires, but he found himself extending the offer to accompany him to Kingston as if it had been his intention all along. That it had led to even more information, to further understanding not only of John Watson, but of John Watson's understanding of Sherlock Holmes, was surprising and instructive. The man noticed things that Sherlock would not have expected him to do, while missing others that ought to have been just as obvious to someone able to perceive those original things. 

John was quiet on the ride, asking little, and that about the case, but he was still more on-alert around Sherlock than before, still wary; which was only common sense. Sherlock knew, or a part of him insisted he _should_ know, that their 'deal', their truce, wouldn't work in the long run. As he discovered more about what John truly was, John would make similar discoveries about Sherlock and, in the end, it couldn't go well. Never had before. Mycroft had already warned Sherlock that he was either being a fool or deluding himself that this wasn't some elaborate version of playing with his food; a cruel game to play on someone who was, according to the elder Holmes brother, _'reasonably admirable, for a mortal' _.__

__But then Mycroft had always been a few increments more removed from the world than Sherlock. He had to be, of course, and his advice was occasionally useful, if hateful to procure. Humbling himself to Mycroft, no matter how necessary or rare, was abhorrent to Sherlock. The fact that Mycroft was usually able to seem so gracious about it sometimes almost made it worse._ _

__"So, bizarre murder, seemingly impossible scene... what else?" John's voice broke in on Sherlock's near-brooding thoughts, providing him a perfect excuse to dispel them._ _

__"A confession from someone who could never have actually committed the crime with which we seem to be dealing." Lestrade had given him only the basics, sure he'd be interested but not wanting to colour his view of the facts. Sherlock's lips quirked upward slightly. The Detective Inspector was learning quite well, taking to the subtle—and occasionally not so subtle—guidance Sherlock had been providing. Someday, if all went well, DI Lestrade would be considered brilliant at his job and Sherlock would reap the rewards of a well-groomed symbiotic relationship for a number of years; eventually he would have to start training up another, unless Lestrade took the initiative and did so on his own._ _

__"Hm. Well, we've heard 'impossible' before," John murmured, a hint of a smile in his features, if not on his mouth._ _

__"Indeed," replied Sherlock, turning his head to not exactly look out the window._ _

__He wanted to prove Mycroft wrong almost as much as he wanted, selfishly, greedily, perhaps foolishly, to have his cake and eat it, too. To have his useful companion, his sometimes melodramatic blogger, his accommodating flatmate, and a friend who knew what he was—and stayed anyway. Beyond that, even Sherlock didn't dare to dream, because if he could somehow achieve _that_? He would surely have to be content. Despite the innate possessiveness in him that wanted more, he would force himself to be satisfied. Somehow._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated 11/08/12


	7. John - Consulting At The Crime Scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: I am not a doctor, nor do I play one on tv. Google is my lovely assistant. If it's utterly buggered, I'm blaming Google.
> 
> (Do feel free to chime in if something's truly botched, though, thanks!)

John crouched down by the body of a young woman, his trainers just inches from the blood pooled on the cream and olive tiles. He could hear Sherlock speaking quietly to Lestrade about other aspects of the room and the body, but right now John was doing his best to see what could be seen and to stuff away some of the initial angry horror that had welled up inside him. The dead woman’s head had been twisted around, very nearly 180 degrees on her neck, and the resultant damage was far more disturbing than anything in a horror film. It was hard to see a pretty young girl killed gruesomely—well, killed at all, of course—but a gory death was somehow worse, in John’s mind. Perhaps it was the sort of chivalric response that was no longer politically correct, but John couldn’t help how he was. 

“John?” Sherlock prompted from across the room. Usually he would hover near, either watching John or doing his own extra study of the victim _du jour_. 

“Well, it’s fairly obvious she didn’t trip and crack her head on the sink,” John said in what he immediately realised was too tight a voice. Clearing his throat, he went on. “Your ME will need to confirm it, but I think she may have been strangled before… her head was turned ‘round. There’s bruising on the neck that doesn’t exactly match just the… um… twisting. Also, I’m fairly certain this was done elsewhere.”

“Not enough blood?” Lestrade asked, standing not far behind and to the side of John. 

“Nor spatter,” Sherlock murmured, still further away than Lestrade, his tone very nearly pedantic. “You can see that there was tearing and the carotid compromised. You’d have much more blood decorating the immediate area.”

“Even if this was done after death, it would still have been messier,” John chimed in.

“How much strength would it take to do something like that, John?” Sherlock asked with an edge in his voice that John knew meant he wanted to make a point to Lestrade. This was about the person who had confessed, John was certain.

“Fairly strong, actually, to do it to a living, resisting person,” John mused, knowing he could have done it easily, but that didn’t count. “After death, still not easy, but it would require a little less muscle. You could hold the body down and torque the head around, but there’d be post-mortem bruising on the places you pressed, more than likely—especially with someone as fair-skinned as this.”

“You could do it, right, John?” Lestrade asked, good at resisting letting Sherlock wind him up too easily.

Keeping in mind what a normal person his size and body-shape was capable of, John tilted his head as if considering. Of course John could do it; had done, in fact, on more than one occasion, though not to this extreme. “I could, yeah, but then I’ve had some training. Would be quite an effort, I think. She’s got good musculature, sturdy bones, you see. Could’ve put up a bit of a fight. I wouldn’t think anyone weaker than me would manage, not to this extent. Snapping the neck, sure, but not this… whatever this is about. That’s a bit much.”

“Someone about your height with Anderson’s build?” Sherlock supposed.

Frowning as he rose, taking off the protective gloves, John glanced through the open doorway to the next room, where the forensics team member in question was currently speaking to one of the other members. Pursing his lips, he sighed, not liking to be put on the spot. “Highly doubtful.”

“Bugger,” Lestrade grumbled and then sighed. “I’ve got a confession,” he continued, frowning a bit at Sherlock. “You want me to dismiss a _signed_ confession to pursue some other killer?”

“I want you to take evidence over someone’s word, Lestrade.” The detective’s words were a scathing drawl and he snapped off his gloves, dropping them in a bag in the corner with a number of others. His tone shifted to markedly peremptory as he strode out of the room. “John.”

Resisting the urge to snap to and hurry as if under orders—Sherlock had that effect on more than just John, luckily, or he’d worry—John caught Lestrade’s unhappy dark eyes. “Your alleged killer a small man?”

“Maybe your height, possibly an inch more,” Lestrade answered without having to think. “Skinny though.”

“Small hands?” The DI nodded and grimaced in reply, smart enough to know he should be taking the advice of the ‘consulting detective’ he’d called in seriously, as well as John’s educated suggestions. “It’s not impossible, of course, but I wouldn’t put money on it. The official examination of the body will tell the tale, of course.”

“Thanks, John,” Lestrade answered on a resigned sigh as John noticed him subtly resist the urge to pat him on the shoulder or something. DI Lestrade was a casual toucher amongst those with whom he felt familiar or comfortable, but he was canny enough to have noticed early on John’s aversion to being touched; it was actually a sign that he thought of John as a colleague—at the least—now, if not some sort of amorphous almost-friend. The man’s frustration and distress were hidden, but John could sense them clearly.

“Let me know if we can help further,” John told him, deliberately resting his hand on Lestrade’s upper arm. Dark eyes going to John at once, Lestrade’s brows rose slightly as John just let his hand stay a moment, and after a few more seconds some of the tension bled out of Lestrade’s shoulders and he nodded almost as if John had said more. “You’ll sort it,” John added confidently and turned away.

No one generally said much to John, although Sally Donovan nodded to him in passing and he returned it politely, so he was outside in a few moments, going down the steps and along the walk toward the street where he hoped Sherlock was still waiting. The man was notorious for just taking off if his mind was elsewhere; although, granted, he hadn’t done so in months. 

“What did you do?” Sherlock’s voice, not quite startling John, came from a dense shadow cast by a riotous growth of bushes around the base of an ash tree. 

“Excuse me?” John replied automatically, suddenly aware that he was rubbing his hand on his thigh; the hand he had rested upon Lestrade’s arm. Sherlock said nothing, pale gaze dropping to John’s hand as he forced himself to stop, and then he lifted a brow as he looked at John in expectant silence. Tucking his hands into his jacket pockets, John looked away, randomly scanning the street and night-dark foliage, and blew out a quiet sigh. “He wanted a bit of reassurance.”

“And?” It would have been perfectly reasonable right then had Sherlock’s eyes glowed, because the intensity of his gaze was almost physical. John felt the pull of it, as if some hidden slice of gravity had shifted slightly, not drawing John physically, but in some other fashion that didn’t translate well into language. 

“I reassured him.” Exhaling shortly, focusing on the red slit of the button-hole on Sherlock’s lapel, John resisted the pull of the man’s charisma. “It was nothing… abnormal.”

“Parsing the meaning rather closely, aren’t you?” The dryness in the taller man’s tone was blatant to John. 

“You made him more tense and doubtful than usual.” John had never attempted to explain some of the things he just _knew_ before; it was peculiar to fit words around the concepts. “I… made some of that go away.”

Glancing past John, Sherlock twitched his head in a clear ‘this way’ gesture and started walking along the pavement. John heard people moving about and talking, knew from the sound and smell on the cold air that Anderson was amongst those who had just come outside, and walked alongside Sherlock without looking back. 

“How does it work?” Nearly five minutes had passed before Sherlock spoke and John was in no way surprised; he’d known the conversation wasn’t over. 

“Doesn’t work with everyone,” John replied, shrugging slightly. “I don’t know why or how, except I get a feeling… sometimes… and I know this or that person is…” Sighing, he frowned down at their feet; his comfortably-worn trainers and Sherlock’s sleek bespoke shoes. “That I could affect them.”

The question that Sherlock did not ask made John twitchy inside as the taller man hurried his steps slightly and flagged down a taxi. Sherlock leaned over and gave the driver their address, along with a few notes whose denomination John couldn’t see. Opening the rear door, Sherlock waved John in, but didn’t get into the taxi after him. At John’s curious expression, he merely said, “I’ve some things to do.”

It didn’t take any kind of special anything to read the _‘I don’t want to talk about it’_ inherent in the man’s tone and expression. So John didn’t ask, only sat back with a short nod as Sherlock closed the cab door and stepped up onto the pavement again; moments later, the driver steered the vehicle away from the kerb and into traffic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated 11/08/12


	8. Sherlock - Necessary Concerns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Since I'm doing my own editing from here onward, do drop me a word if you spot anything out of place or hopelessly buggered. Thanks. :)

Sherlock hadn’t asked John the expected question about his ‘ability’; he suspected he already knew the answer, his suspicion stronger due to John’s manner when he pointedly did _not_ ask. He would have to find out how much John had manipulated him without his knowledge, how much of his worryingly-persistent affection for the man came from deliberate influence, but… he _had_ asked John if he was able to make people trust him. Perhaps, again, it was a matter of interpretation. Perhaps John hadn’t used it on him. Sneering at himself, Sherlock dismissed that possibility out of hand as ridiculously optimistic and, if anything, possible proof of his hypothesis. 

Walking along the busy streets, struggling with more of that feeling of hurt and betrayal that he could not seem to squash thoroughly enough. Why? He had no business becoming emotionally invested in anyone, so, what had happened? He had let his guard down, that’s what; a stupid, stupid mistake. Only… no, he would have to question John more thoroughly. Later. He couldn’t trust himself at the moment.

The blood at the crime scene had affected him far more than it should have done, even though he had fed—actually fed fairly well—after the confrontation with John. It had been difficult pushing himself after he had been wounded, draining, but necessary. It was his own fault, seeing as how he had resisted feeding for close on two weeks prior to chasing down Talbot; as a result, his slower reactions had got him injured and, later, outed to his flatmate. Mistakes and more mistakes, compounded atop prior idiocy and what he knew deep down to have been a continued resistance to losing the last of his humanity. Which, really, was a joke, considering what he thought of humanity, in general. 

Slipping down side streets and through alleys, Sherlock found his way to one of the hiding places of what Mycroft liked to call Sherlock’s ‘minions’ when he wanted to annoy him and amuse him simultaneously. His homeless network, what John more charitably—and more cleverly—called his ‘Baker Street Irregulars’; the faceless people living on the fringes of society and civilisation who were nearly everywhere and yet almost never noticed. The perfect spies. Sherlock had happened upon the concept that he could make use of these people as a resource a number of years before, and had been diligently seeing to the upkeep of the ‘relationship’ ever since. They served him in more ways than as spies.

Using his own unusual abilities, though it was more of an effort than it should have been, Sherlock moved nearly silently through dimness and shadow as he wended his way into places few went, looking for those of his network who had proved willing to aid him in very specific ways in the past. A familiar scent caught him and he tracked down a young girl, her slender form hidden under many layers, the innermost of them cleaner than one might expect, and her shaggy, ratty hair hanging to hide most of her fine-featured face. Despite her appearance, like a number of others with whom Sherlock was familiar, she kept herself rather well, washed any chance she got, still had most of her teeth and her mind; it was only her ancestry that kept her from leading a more normal life. It wasn’t the full moon now, though, so Sherlock knew he would find her sane and biddable.

It was proof of his body’s urgent need that he had to force himself to speak to her gently, to draw her aside and out of sight while making certain she was willing. Her mixed parentage made her difficult to mesmerise, but it made her blood richer and more sustaining. Feeding from her would keep him going twice as long as from the average ‘normal’ human, and he could not deny that the sensation was richer, as well. Stronger. The mild euphoria that feeding brought on was similar to that of some drugs, and easily as addictive all on its own, his inhuman body-chemistry’s requirements notwithstanding. Though there were worse addictions.

However, it was not a one-way exchange; while he drank less than half a litre of her strong, red blood, the subtle influx of chemicals from his saliva made her feel a semi-orgasmic euphoria of her own. A high to match his, and it took only a slight suggestion in his most sultry voice to tip her over the edge into an actual orgasm—without any physical stimulation—that she would remember pleasantly, her mind filling in the blanks with the act of her preference. The human mind was malleable in the most interesting ways if the proper chemical cues were given; she remembered him as a skilled lover who took her quickly and passionately in the dark places, leaving her weak and sated. 

Sherlock left her with a dreamy smile, curled up in the nook she had claimed for her sleep that night. Less than half an hour later he was out amongst the traffic and noise again, energised once more, still feeling the sweet rush of power and life in his body. Thus it was with much more indulgence than he might have shown earlier that he greeted the sleek black car that pulled over against the kerb some yards ahead of him. He slowed his pace as the muscular man with the dark suit and sunglasses—at night, how melodramatic, really—climbed out and opened the passenger door expectantly. 

Sighing long-sufferingly, Sherlock slid into the car and took a seat across from its only occupant, keeping his hands in his coat pockets and the sneer upon his face as he rumbled, “Good evening, brother dear. Slumming?”

His brother, indeed, returned his sneer with a smirking sort of smile—brief as a blink—before smoothing the line of his impeccably creased trouser leg and saying, “You do, of course, realise the irony of your saying that just now, _mon frère_?”

Giving him nothing, no reaction, despite his inner annoyance, Sherlock merely waited. Mycroft _always_ had a purpose in these silly mobile meetings of his. The silence, pregnant with unspoken words and a long history of disharmonious exchanges, stretched onward. However, Mycroft had initiated this and Sherlock could usually summon up immense patience when it was warranted.

“You are leaving it too long to sate yourself properly, Sherlock.” Finally surrendering to the need to actually have the conversation he initiated, despite ceding Sherlock the smallest advantage of making him speak first, Mycroft’s tone was precisely that of chiding concern. 

“I’m coping quite well, thank you.” Icy tone, icier expression, Sherlock glared at him without keeping anything back. A mortal human might have been terrified and potentially traumatised by that alone. 

Mycroft sighed and ‘tsk tsk tsk’ed at him. “Really, now. I suppose you’ll next tell me how allowing that half-breed, Talbot, to damage you was pertinent to some plan of yours, then?” 

“My plans are none of your affair,” Sherlock gritted. 

“I have warned you, _petit frère_ , I shan’t cover up for you again.” Leaning very slightly forward, Mycroft’s voice dropped, genuine emotion woven into the words. “If I must restrain you and force you to sate your hunger properly, I will do so. You know I will. I won’t have you risk us all, _or_ the true death, to serve your foolish pride.”

Staring at his elder brother, Sherlock considered a number of replies, polite and profane alike, and turned his face at last to glare out the tinted window at the London streets they moved past. “I won’t keep thralls to abuse for my pleasure. I won’t kill random strangers.”

“Cease your melodramatics!” Mycroft hissed impatiently. “You know very well I am not asking you to be an animal about this! There are willing participants—hardly ‘thralls’—who would happily sate you without dying of it, and you know it. The greater the power, the greater the price. Our bloodline has lasted millennia, born to master the lesser of our kind and keep order. I tire of your wilful dismissal of all that you are, of your House… of me, whom you should respect as the current Elder of that House, if not as your own brother. You cannot change what you are by sheer stubbornness, Sherlock.”

“I will not willingly surrender to the tyranny of genetics just because others have done so in the past!” Unable to keep the anger from his tone, Sherlock restrained himself from any physical reaction, other than an increase in tension. “I know my parameters now, _Elder_.”

“Apparently you do not,” Mycroft corrected, eyes narrowing at the sneering delivery of his title. “The least of us could take you now, even though you’ve just fed. You’re leaving it too long; these cautious little sips are not going to sustain you much longer.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw on words that would feel satisfying to say, but which would only make him appear a petulant child shouting at his sibling, and concentrated on breathing slowly and deeply. “I came to you a few months ago, didn’t I?”

“Only because you had grown too weak to bear the sun for more than a few minutes, or to keep from falling upon your new… _flatmate_ … and sating yourself.” The elder Holmes’ opinion of the term, if not the person whom it referenced, was clear. “Dr. Watson’s files show he is clever for his kind. You won’t keep your secret indefinitely.”

Though he knew he would pay for it later when the truth came out—with Mycroft, nine times out of ten, the truth would come out—Sherlock deflected this dangerous line of conversation with a snort and a roll of his eyes. “He’s damaged, Mycroft. His PTSD keeps him focused on making certain his own actions and reactions are normal; he has little attention to spare to notice my abnormalities as anything but what I’ve led him to believe: I’m a high-functioning sociopath and an eccentric.”

“You dismiss others too easily sometimes,” commented Mycroft, pulling out his vibrating mobile and frowning at it before keying in a brief text with incredibly fast, dexterous fingers. “The man’s paranoia issues will make him look where you won’t expect him to do. End your little game of self-deception; either make him yours or let him go before he comes to serious harm.”

“I won’t make a thrall, Mycroft, I’ve told you repeatedly.” Shifting from a sneer to a teasing smirk, Sherlock added, “I wonder that you aren’t asking me to let you have him. That little meeting certainly changed _your_ opinion of the man.”

Mycroft put away his mobile and lifted his brows, tilting his head ever so slightly as the corners of his mouth turned up in a very nearly genuine little smile. “I very well may do that, if you don’t make proper use of him for yourself. He was quite strong-willed.” Eyes bluer than Sherlock’s, though still rather similar, turned distant as Mycroft obviously thought back upon his enforced ‘chat’ with John Watson. “Shrugged off my more subtle attempts to intimidate him without much effort, at all. Oh, I do admire strength of character.” 

A soft growl grew in Sherlock’s throat, surprising him almost as much as it clearly did Mycroft, whose brows shot upward again, along with one corner of his mouth. Having put himself on the spot by even bringing up the subject, let alone reacting to Mycroft’s teasing words, Sherlock was forced to speak. “Admire him all you like, Mycroft, but from afar. He is not yours to toy with.”

“Nor is he yours, apparently,” Mycroft countered in fine squabbling-sibling fashion, though he lifted his chin and straightened his waistcoat in clear focusing gestures a moment later. He returned to a more business-like tone. “I shall expect you to visit me before the month is out, Sherlock. I promise you I shan’t say a word to mock or tease. You know I only harass you on this matter because I care for your wellbeing.”

“So you say,” grumbled Sherlock, unable to call him a liar, because he knew it was the truth. Mycroft’s hatefully genuine fraternal devotion was a bond that even Sherlock felt, in spite of himself, and which he knew tied them together on a level that no amount of willpower could alter. 

“Besides, Mummy would never forgive me if I allowed you to come to lasting harm,” Mycroft added in a much gentler tone as the car slowed. “May I pass along your greetings to her?”

Gripping the door’s handle, waiting for the instant the car stopped at the kerb—he knew they would be somewhere outside 221b Baker Street—Sherlock grimaced, but then sighed and nodded grudgingly. “Yes. Do.” He all but sprang out of the vehicle then, the driver only just opening his door to come around, and slammed the car door before Mycroft could say anything further behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated 11/08/12


	9. John - Discoveries

John spent a little while just sitting still and thinking after getting back to the flat; making tea with only half his attention upon it, if that. Sherlock believed him about not knowing ‘what’ he was, but now he was almost certainly wondering if John had been influencing him without his knowledge. The problem was, John had done so, but he doubted Sherlock would believe him this time if he explained that it had been only a handful of times and only to help, not to manipulate. If he had thought he could have explained at the time, he would have done, but they hadn’t known each others’ secrets then.

So now, here they were, in some weird middle-ground between what had been and what might be. The situation was so confusing; months of friendship based on half-truths and necessary lies, but John was firmly convinced that their basic personalities, the people they were despite human or non-human traits, were still the same. He had truly _liked_ Sherlock, had even enjoyed his eccentricities in a way, and he certainly enjoyed his brilliance and fire. The idea of having to possibly kill him had been almost as gut-wrenchingly difficult as thinking about killing himself. If Sherlock didn’t feel he could come to trust John again, nor John trust Sherlock, then they were back to grim territory where John was not naïve enough to believe he would be allowed to kite off to the continent, or wherever, and remain a potential threat—at least in Sherlock’s mind. It was all well and good to say he’d let John go, but if John were in Sherlock’s position, he wouldn’t allow a potential threat to himself to continue, so why should Sherlock—who was far more intelligent and ruthless than John—do so?

Rousing himself from a downward spiral of mood and imaginings, John rang Harry to see if she was busy; the idea had popped into his head that he ought to have another look through the boxes that she was storing in her attic. The last remnants of their parents’ personal things that hadn’t been parted out between John and Harry, condensed into a few storage boxes. It had been about a decade since he’d searched through them for clues, but it occurred to him that he might be better at spotting them now. 

It was worth a try. Besides, if he sat around waiting for the inevitable confrontation with Sherlock, he’d come unhinged. Best to do something useful—or potentially so, anyhow. 

Normally, John would leave a note for Sherlock when he knew the detective might be expecting him to be home—especially during a case—but given the way things were? No, he didn’t like the idea that Sherlock might turn up at Harry’s when they were on such uncertain ground. John frowned over the little square of pale blue for far longer than anyone should need to write _’Back later. John.’_

To burn off excess energy and stress, John walk/jogged/ran to Harry’s; cutting through back streets and parks wherever he could to stretch his legs and move a little faster. His semi-psychosomatic leg problem gave him just a little trouble at first—it often did when he was too long idle—but after a bit, once he was truly _running_ , everything was moving smoothly and he made it to Harry’s in about half an hour. The same trip in a cab would have been about fifteen or twenty minutes. 

“Why do you want to do this in the middle of the night, John?” Harry asked as she set a second cup of tea down on the kitchen table near John’s elbow. He’d been through one box thus far, yielding nothing new.

“It’s _not_ the middle of the night, Harry.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s just gone half-past nine.” His sister’s grimace—so much like their Mum’s—made him roll his eyes a bit. “I don’t know, Mum and Dad weren’t very forthcoming with details about what went on before their marriage, or about _my_ father… and I never really questioned that until it was too late. So, here I am, forty coming in view on the horizon and… for a variety of reasons… once I started thinking about it, I couldn’t let it go,” he replied mixing the truth liberally in with the sort of thing that sounded ‘normal’, putting down a manila folder full of photos to take up the cup and sip. “Ta.” She always made his tea too sweet, but it was still nice of her to do it, so he didn’t complain.

“You never cared about Dad not being your birth father until after you went through that sullen teenage phase,” she pointed out as she picked up a photo from another stack John had already gone through. 

“Um. Not to ruin your sisterly fun, but you were only a couple of years behind me on ‘that sullen teenage phase’. Not to mention you outdid me entirely by coming out at _fourteen_ ,” he retorted with a smallish smile to show he wasn’t finding fault, just ribbing her. Flipping through some more pictures, he found only those of the family he knew, Mum, Dad, Harry, a couple of distant cousins on Dad’s side, one great-uncle on Mum’s—dead now. Even feisty old ‘Nan’, Dad’s mum, who had passed on while John was in Afghanistan. “And I wasn’t sullen,” he had to add. “I was having a hellish puberty, thanks, and trying to figure out if there was something wrong with me.”

Harry snorted and sat in the other kitchen chair, reaching down into the third of the three boxes, one John had yet to go through. She pulled out a weathered old expanding file with a string-fastener on its flap. She unwound the string, not looking at John as she spoke. “I thought there was something wrong with you, too, for a while.” Digging through the contents of the file, Harry missed John’s head coming up and him giving her a surprised look, but she went on distractedly after a moment. “Mum and I spoke of it a couple of times, with her trying to tell me boys went through things a little differently, and she didn’t…” Harry lifted a shoulder as she worried out a thick envelope from between the last compartment and a bulging sheaf of news-clippings. Once she’d tugged it out, she lifted the flap to see what was inside. “Well, Mum didn’t really seem to understand what was worrying me and I couldn’t explain it properly… besides,” now she looked up and gave John a slightly-forced smile, “you eventually got it sorted and seemed alright after a while. Just hormones or something. Wasn’t like I didn’t have my own assortment of pubescent angst, as well as the whole coming out thing. Just as you said.”

With a quirk of the mouth that was more grimace than smile, John nodded with an inner sigh. He knew prior to this that Harry had convinced herself the strange things he’d gone through—some of which she’d witnessed—were entirely due to the confusion of puberty. Well, he’d seen such reactions before. People generally didn’t want to know the world wasn’t what it seemed, didn’t want to believe in anything impossible, and would misremember events so they could sleep peacefully. It still hurt a bit that his own sister—half-sister—would rather remember him as a troubled youth; however, he had to admit that he wouldn’t be entirely comfortable with her knowing the full truth. Harry was lousy at keeping secrets.

“Johnny,” Harry murmured, using the childhood name for him that he knew slipped out because they were both thinking of the past. “Look, did you see this last time you went through this stuff?” She handed him the envelope she had pulled out and he took it, finding folded legal-looking documents and a couple of creased, yellowed photos. “That has a sort of official look to it.”

“I don’t… if I did then I don’t recall it,” he said as he looked at a photo of a young, smiling version of his mother, snuggled into the arms of a man John knew to be his true father. John Hamish. He’d seen a wedding photo and a couple of others, carefully kept in his Mum’s old photo album with the date written neatly beneath. The semi-familiar man in the photo was obviously closely-related to John, the same nose, and eyes, as well as almost the same mouth. He had long brown hair, wavy and falling to his shoulders—they were broad shoulders, too—and he was looking at John’s Mum with an expression that could not be taken as anything but adoration. She looked so happy, his Mum, Marietta, gazing back at the man who would die before ever seeing the son he would give her. 

“We both got Mum’s hair, but he looked just like you—or you like him, I suppose,” Harry said, leaning over to peep at the photo. “You missed out on the funny ears, though… but only just,” she said teasingly. Her mobile rang in the living room and she patted his shoulder as she got up and went to answer it. He could tell by her tone of voice moments later that it was Clara and he tuned out to give her some privacy.

John frowned at the photo, tilting it to eliminate the glare reflected from the light overhead, sharpening his gaze to see his birth-father’s ear peeking out through his thick, wavy hair. Making a soft sound in the back of his throat, he held the photo closer, and his lips parted on a silent _‘what the…’_ that never finished with the last profane word he was thinking. The ear showing between the strands of brown hair looked a lot like John’s own—his had been stupidly prominent when he was at his gawky phase—except that the ear in the photo came to a decided point. Not a narrow upper helix, no, but a genuine, ‘Mr. Spock’ sort of point. It was almost elegant. However, John knew it was not like that in the other photos he had seen in Mum’s album. In those John Hamish’s hair hid his ears or they looked like perfectly normal _ears_.

Of course, he knew there were deviations in normal ear shape—he was a doctor; he’d seen some weird variations on ‘normal’ in his time—and he knew that some people had somewhat pointed ears, but he had not seen this sort of development before. Had they been fake? If not, why hadn’t it ever come up? Had they been surgically corrected? 

Frowning, John looked at the other photo; this one was a bit more faded, with worn edges that he would say meant it had been kept in a wallet or something. It was a photo of his Mum and birth-father standing in someone’s garden or in a park, holding hands. His Mum wore flowers in her hair, a flowing white dress of thin fabric with a belt that looked like several chains of flowers woven together, and a dreamy smile of incredible joy. His birth-father stood facing her, their hands crossed and joined between them, his left in hers, her right in his, and his face was filled with a similar look of deep happiness. He wore a loose white shirt—John thought they were called ‘poet shirts’ or something, like those folks who dressed up in medieval garb wore—close-fitting brown trousers tucked into boots that stopped just below the knees, and a wide belt gathering the shirt close to his hips before it flared out a little below. His hair was a little longer than in the other photo, but it had been pulled into a pony-tail in back and flowers woven into the waves. Right there, the pointed tip to his upper helix showed plainly. This photo was taken from the opposite side as the previous photo, so between the two it was revealed that both of the long-dead John Hamish’s ears had the same formation. In this second photo, he had a small stud earring in the lobe, as well. John noticed, too, that a thin, gold-coloured cord had been wrapped around the couple’s joined hands and both tasseled ends hung down between them. 

So, either his parents had been fond of fantasy dress-up activities—wasn’t that called ‘cosplay’ now?—or there were more things to know about his birth-father than he’d ever dreamed. John tucked the photos back into the envelope and unfolded the legal-looking document. In the next room, Harry’s voice stayed low and warm, occasionally punctuated with quiet laughter; which John hoped meant the rocky relationship between she and Clara, her ex, was still on the mend. Harry was making an effort to stay sober and Clara was making an effort to forgive past mistakes; it could still work out for them.

“John?” Harry’s voice from behind him drew John’s attention away from the document before he’d even got a good look; he turned his head to give his sister a querying look. She wore a hopeful expression. “Would you mind my leaving you to this on your own?”

“Clara?” He asked, already smiling. She nodded, her cheeks taking on a hint of pink. “Go,” he said with a tilt of his chin at her. “I’ll lock up when I leave. Say hello for me.”

“Don’t leave a mess,” Harry said with mostly-mock warning in her tone before whirling and gathering her things. She was out with a, “Bye!” shouted over her shoulder in less than five minutes.

John hardly heard her, frowning again, trying to read the fine-lined, curly hand-written words on the pages he had carefully unfolded. It was all in very thick ‘legalese’ and peppered with fancy Latin terms for this and that, but it seemed to boil down to an inheritance document from before John was born. He flipped through several pages, finding the latter three were just identical copies to the first three, finding that both sets had been signed with two incomprehensible scrawls and an old-fashioned green wax seal affixed after. If one was very generous in one’s interpretation, the first letter of the last part of the uppermost signature could have been an ‘H’. So, in all probability that was John’s natural father’s signature. He touched the black lines of script, swirls and jogs that formed a very bold and sweeping signature. When his fingertips rested on the seal, it warmed to his touch so fast he lifted his finger quickly; apparently it was a type of wax that melted at a very low temperature. 

Why had he never seen this when he dug through these boxes the last time? Harry _had_ been forced to pry it out of the back of the folder, perhaps he’d simply overlooked it. John picked up the envelope, finding it unadorned with address or writing of any kind, but the same seal had likely been on the back at one time, holding down the flap; a circle of greenish colour had seeped into the paper along with the waxy residue. 

His mobile pinged him with a text message alert. He set the envelope aside with a few other things he planned to keep and leaned back to dig his phone out of the pocket of his jacket, which hung over the back of his chair. 

_[Require your input on current case. – SH]_

What could Sherlock need that he hadn’t already gleaned from the scene and John’s answers? John frowned at the phone, thinking back on their uneasy conversation about John’s soothing Lestrade, and wondering if this was Sherlock just wanting him home to grill him some more or possibly accuse him of—his thoughts fragmented when his mobile went off again. 

_[Try to rise above the cliché. Think it through. – SH]_

Holding his breath in surprise for a moment, John then slumped in place chuckling a little. Without over-thinking it, he keyed in a reply as he would have done before their ‘big reveal’ had happened. _[Stop reading my mind. It’s rude. – JW]_

Once he’d sent his response, John started gathering things up, planning to take the final box which Harry had only just opened with him, along with the things thus far gleaned from the first two boxes. Perhaps he could take the document he’d found to a lawyer and discover exactly what it meant, although he wondered if the money that had been put aside for his tuition and the other costs of his medical schooling might not have come from that inheritance, rather than life insurance—his previous assumption. It would be like his Mum to keep it to herself, only telling him as a child that his education was all taken care of. 

His phone pinged again and he closed the flaps on the box—everything tucked inside—before checking the message.

 _[Then stop allowing it to be so boringly easy to read. Return at once. – SH]_ Before John could even tuck the phone away into his pocket again, a smile on his face at Sherlock’s snarky text, another message arrived. _[Bring milk and digestives. Apparently you’ve addicted me to tea. – SH]_

John looked at the little screen for a few moments, lips parted on a grin that was an instant away from a laugh and, even though he was there alone, nodded. Message understood. Their deal was still on, truce still in place, and they would converse about this instead of argue. 

The amount of tension that left him at that was astonishing, mostly because John hadn’t been fully aware of nearly half of it. A part of him was already wincing; certain he was being stupid about this, knowing he should be more wary, predicting that this was all still going to end up with one of them dying. With an impatient sigh, John hefted the box under one arm and turned out all the lights save one, firmly telling that part of him to bugger off; nobody was killing anybody.

At least for the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small edits - Added reference to JW's Nan - 10/24/11.  
> Updated 11/12/12


	10. Sherlock - Old Data Made New

Sherlock heard the street door open, then the soft jingle of keys. He could tell it was John almost at once, could also tell that John was carrying something more than milk and biscuits, and that it was unwieldy while not being very heavy. Faint sliding thumps, an odd sound, took just long enough to place that John was outside the sitting room door before Sherlock was thinking, _‘cardboard box, not entirely full.’_

John didn’t come in at once, though. He hesitated just outside the door. Was he worried about his potential reception? Considering what he would say? There was a shuffling sound, Sherlock heard the distinct rustling of plastic, and then… 

“Sherlock?” John said from the other side of the door, not raising his voice at all. “Little help?”

Sitting at the table, laptop open, Sherlock considered for just a moment simply pretending not to have heard or noticed, but considering how things stood, he could afford to put himself out a little. As long as this didn’t set a precedent.

Opening the door, he found John with a cardboard box—as he’d thought—under one arm, his knee raised to keep it there, as it had apparently begun to slip away from him. A Tesco Express bag was caught in the fingers of his other hand, the plastic handles wrapped into a bit of a twisted knot. John’s expression was a fairly neutral version of mildly-annoyed.

“Thanks,” John said after just long enough a pause that Sherlock knew he hadn’t been wholly confident his flatmate would come to the door. 

Without comment, Sherlock untangled the bag loops from John’s fingers and took it into the kitchen. John followed after depositing the box upon the seat of his chair and hanging up his coat. 

John smelled of dust, tea, mould, a woman’s perfume but not sex, and sweat; however, it wasn’t the sour sweat of fear or the musk-scented sweat of aggression, rather the saltier sweat of steady exertion. John wasn’t one to sweat much, in the first place, and he generally only sweated from exertion after running for a while or when doing something requiring similar expenditure of energy—the last time he had got in a strop and cleaned the entire kitchen and loo was a prime example. He didn’t look particularly tired or worn, but there was a certain tension about him. Unfortunately, in the last few days, that was almost certainly due to the new awareness he had of what Sherlock was, of the fact that there was still an implicit threat of trouble between them if their ‘deal’ didn’t work. 

While Sherlock watched and observed and took in all the little scents and signs, John put the milk away, started the kettle, took down two cups, the tea, and slid the sugar and honey toward the area where it was evident he planned to make the actual tea when the water was hot. He glanced at Sherlock in a querying fashion. Sherlock, still standing with his hip against the worktop, arms loosely crossed over his t-shirt and open dressing gown, lifted a brow at him in return.

“In here or the sitting room?” John paused, a hint of something like teasing entering his expression, like he used to do. “Or are you still ‘deducing’?”

Not quite allowing himself a smirk, Sherlock leaned nearer until he was just a few centimetres away, equidistant from John’s right shoulder, neck, and head; he inhaled through his nose and exhaled slowly through his mouth. John held still, but there was a fine balance of wariness and humour in his expression, and his eartips took on the merest hint of pink. Ah, yes, he recognised the perfume now, she must have hugged him. Sherlock straightened and lifted his head as if he would nod, but didn’t complete the downward movement of his chin. “Your sister. You visited her, had some tea, and you’ve brought that box from her flat… old photos or mementos, perhaps…” With another little sound of enlightenment, he looked at John with pleased surprise. “You’re researching your childhood memories for clues?”

John grinned, a large dose of the impressed appreciation mixed in with the amusement and some of that old wonder with which he used to exclaim unintentionally over Sherlock’s crime-scene deductions. Just then, even as John’s lips parted on the beginning of a word, the kettle started to whistle. Whatever it was, John abandoned it for switching off the burner and pouring hot water into their cups.

“Did you go through a large number of boxes?” Sherlock asked, still wondering about whatever John had been doing. He didn’t like to explain that he had catalogued John’s various scents—no matter that it was not something he’d deliberately set out to do—because John would take it poorly. Which entirely precluded his ever mentioning his preferences amongst them, though he did have them. 

Tea bags steeping, John fetched a spoon out of the drawer, shaking his head. “There aren’t but three left now. We went through the bulk of everything years ago.” The corners of his mouth pulled tighter for a moment, not entirely a grimace, but certainly not a smile. “I had them out about ten years back, hardly remember what my goal was at the time, but…” Trailing off, he shook his head. “It’s strange, Sherlock. I was thinking about this in the cab. About the things I questioned and the things I never did… which you’d think I would have done.”

Sherlock watched John’s expressions, listened to his voice, but also noted the automatic motions of his hands as he made their tea. John knew exactly how Sherlock preferred his tea, never gave him more than three biscuits—there, the box opened, seven biscuits on the little plate with a chip at the edge, meaning four for John, three for Sherlock—although John generally pretended not to notice if one of his own biscuits decreased in size or vanished altogether. “Such as?” 

“I knew weird things were going on with me—puberty’s like that, anyhow—but I never really thought I _could_ ask my Mum about that aspect of it. Only now, thinking back, I don’t know where I got the idea that I couldn’t. I mean…” Shaking his head, he tucked the biscuit box back into the cupboard and hooked both cups in his fingers deftly, taking up the plate of biscuits in the other hand. “Wouldn’t you ask your parents if you… well, I mean…” John came to a stop by the kitchen table, looking discomfited and frustrated for a moment, then obviously decided to forge ahead and continue, “Sorry, but I have no idea what your puberty must’ve been like. Still, if you didn’t know what to expect and strange things happened, wouldn’t you ask your folks?” 

Sherlock didn’t offer to carry anything, but led the way to the table in the sitting room, taking his usual chair and pushing his laptop aside for the moment. “It would be the logical thing, I suppose, though it depends entirely upon the parents. My own questions were few, as I’d been informed what to expect.” He only took his cup up after John slid it across to him, the plate of biscuits inhabiting the usual ‘neutral zone’ in the middle of the table between them. 

Holding his cup in both hands, inhaling over it for a moment—it was amazing how just smelling tea would relax John at least 10%, without fail, most of the time in larger percentage—John frowned unseeingly at the biscuit plate. “Thing is… I did ask them the usual questions; where babies came from, how come I had a penis and Harry didn’t, why did it do the strange things it did down there.” He gestured with one hand as he rattled off these ‘childhood questions’, the slight lines of humour in his expression showing that he was being intentionally whimsical. Snagging a biscuit, John took a small bite while Sherlock hid a hint of an amused smile behind his cup, inhaling the steam from the tea as the simple pleasure it was. 

“Puberty changed everything.” Sherlock spoke the words musingly, sipping the tea John had made him, letting it rest in his mouth while the scent filtered up through his sinuses, the flavours spread across his tongue, and the warmth infused his whole mouth and throat. 

Nodding, John gave a short rueful sigh. “Even Harry thought there was something the matter with me.”

Sherlock remembered his own upsetting introduction into maturity, theorised a bit upon what John might have gone through, and wondered which of his guesses might be true. “Harry didn’t experience it, as well?”

Pursing his lips slightly for a moment, John just shook his head, glancing across at Sherlock briefly before taking another sip of tea and finishing his biscuit. 

It was evident to Sherlock that John was considering what to say, how much to reveal, and on the one hand Sherlock understood this; on the other hand he had to resist the urge to demand that the man simply tell it all, hold nothing back. Sherlock wanted John to unravel all of his innermost secrets once and for all, wanted him to leave not one corner of himself hidden, so that Sherlock could once again feel what he had not entirely appreciated while he had it. The feeling of _knowing_ someone well enough to trust them deep down on a level that had nothing to do with logic or reason. He was self-aware enough to know that part of his motivation in offering John the ‘deal’ was the hope that he could justify to his _logical_ self why his deeply-buried _emotional_ self, his core personality, still—even after the man had put a gun to Sherlock’s head—wanted to trust John Watson. If he could find a way for _that_ to make sense, he would be content; or far closer to it. 

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” John murmured, his tone and the way he shifted in his chair almost the responses Sherlock would expect if he had been pressuring him for more information. Which he hadn’t been. Aloud. “Expected you’d want to know everything.”

“John?” Sherlock tilted his head, metaphorical hackles rising a bit as he set his cup down with excessive care. 

John met his gaze for a moment, blond-brown eyebrows lifting, and Sherlock wondered what he had inadvertently let show upon his own face to cause John put his own cup down hurriedly and lift his hands in a placating manner, shaking his head firmly. “No, no. Not… I’m not _doing_ anything.” He made a vague sweep of one hand at Sherlock, up and down. “It’s just that I know how you are. You’ve got that expression, like when you’re chomping at the bit to dissect something… or someone.”

“Have I?” A genuine question this time, because Sherlock had been trying for patience, trying _not_ to demand or press.

John nodded. “It’s all over you. And…” He made a reluctant sighing sound. “I can feel the difference, the…” He closed his fingers in a loose fist as if drawing something out of the air from Sherlock’s direction. “The pull. Just like you do when you’re questioning someone, only without your actually _speaking_ the questions. They’re there, in your eyes, your expression, in your… well, there it is.” As if just then realising how he sounded, as if struck with self-consciousness, John sat back with one last brief fillip of his hand at Sherlock.

“So, it’s visual and auditory clues,” mused Sherlock, torn between his suspicions and that same little niggling, ridiculous, sense of _pride_ he felt when John used Sherlock’s methods correctly. 

“Yes.” Nodding firmly, John took a drink of his tea. “Body language, tone, etcetera.”

Sherlock just watched at him, studying those very things, as he always did, and looking for the lie. 

John put his cup down, leaning forward again, forearms on the table as he cocked his head to the side, saying in a soft voice, lips not quite pulling into a humourless smile, “That. Exactly that.”

Very nearly copying his posture, leaning forward, fingers interlaced upon the table, Sherlock held his gaze. “And how would I know the difference if you _were_ ‘doing anything’, John?”

“I knew you’d circle back to that eventually; knew before we left the crime scene,” John replied, shaking his head a little, voice resigned, but he didn’t look away. 

“Of course you did.” Brushing that aside as painfully obvious, Sherlock lifted his brows slightly. “Well?”

Licking his lips briefly, taking a short, deep breath and letting it out slowly, John just nodded slightly and his eyes were open and unguarded as he… _touched_ Sherlock. 

If Sherlock hadn’t been utterly expectant, focused on _any_ slightest change, then he might not have noticed, but as it was? For just a moment, surely only a few seconds, it was like John was there, in his personal space, a warm sense of the other man in his surface thoughts, familiar and calming. No actual words or concepts or anything as structured as that, just… his _presence_. Just _John_.

Sherlock’s lips parted on a silent gasp of understanding as his brilliant mind—he was, after all, a genius—skittered back through the recent months and weeks, to a few specific occasions:

> _A couple of times when the two of them had been in highly-dangerous situations, Sherlock had caught John’s eye for a bracing moment and had just **known** that John would be where he was needed when he was needed, and he was. _
> 
> _At least once when Sherlock had been wildly frenetic, spinning out of control in a manic burst of agitation that would have crashed him on its other side into one of his rare black moods—the dark depressions that had sometimes led him to drugs and other abuses of his body in desperate, impossible attempts to escape himself—and John had stopped him from his increasingly-rapid pacing with a hand upon his arm, managed to talk him into sitting still long enough for John to play the concerned doctor, check his temperature and pulse, ask him irritating questions, and somehow talked him into having some tea and a biscuit. His jagged edges had gone by the time he was halfway through the tea and he’d kited out to Bart’s to check on an experiment he was running, his energy still high, but controlled._
> 
> _Even more recently, when Sherlock had been right on the edge of a truly murderous rage—not a metaphor for him, at least in that instance—John had spoken his name quietly, put a cautious hand to the middle of his back, and Sherlock had found an ounce more control, a sliver of forbearance that had enabled him to just walk away, rather than doing something irreparable in front of witnesses from the Yard._

Nothing inordinately outrageous, nothing truly impossible, each of those little things John had done were quite subtle at the time; it was only now that Sherlock realised not only the significance of them, but the very fact that he had _not_ noticed them _then_.

Unable to put these rapid-fire correlations immediately into words, feeling a riot of reactions both positive and negative, Sherlock could only breathe out a soft, “ _That’s_ what you do.”

Face sombre, hands clasped together tightly upon the table, John only nodded in confirmation and waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update 11/12/12


	11. John - Sometimes The Truth Doesn't Make Sense

John had so many things chasing themselves around in his head as he watched Sherlock’s reaction, felt the tiny spark of panic—instinctual, entirely out of his control, but brief—when he _knew_ his non-physical touch had been consciously recognised; saw Sherlock flicking through memories, making connections, pale eyes jittery and wide, and then when he gasped—when he _understood_. Guilt and apprehension chased hope and affection. Anticipation chased expectation. 

Woven in amongst it all was the subtle flavour of arousal, an ache of want that he had felt so often when he was with Sherlock, since the day they met. He had thought he knew what it meant many times, but it had evolved along with their interactions, from wanting to be around his brilliant mind, then wanting to be involved in the things that he did while using that mind, then wanting to help and protect him and that brilliant mind, then wanting his graceful and arresting body. John had tried to stop it there, told himself he couldn’t have that, had pushed that aspect of the want aside as best he could. It still never went away, only went deep, and he hadn’t expected it to surface again after their confrontation, but it was there, even now, gliding under the surface of all the other thoughts like a stealthy predator in the undergrowth. What was wrong with him that he wasn’t more afraid, that what Sherlock was didn’t bother him as much as it probably should? 

Well, perhaps Sherlock’s reaction, once he gathered himself, might put those questions to bed at last, might end that shadowy ache of want. Because touching Sherlock openly, letting himself be known, had been one of the most intimate things he had ever done with another living being that didn’t involve clothing being removed or an exchange of bodily fluids. If Sherlock reacted poorly, perhaps that could stop John’s foolishness, as well.

Sherlock watched him, very nearly stared _through_ him for several minutes in silence, though John was aware that the other man’s every nerve was alert, that he was on the edge of an action, and John was quietly preparing to meet it. He might even manage to hurt Sherlock in order to get away, but he still didn’t know if he could kill him. A bit not good, that. A bit not smart, really. 

“What else have you done, then?” Sherlock’s voice was soft, deeper than normal, and John realised belatedly that his pupils had widened and his fangs were slightly more prominent. “There must be a negative to the positive. I can’t find any memories that fit, but it must have happened.”

Shaking his head, John felt the pull of that strange not-gravity, the impulse to go toward the danger instead of away. “Never.”

Darkened gray eyes held John’s gaze, refocusing in little flitting movements nearly too fast to see, upon his face, his body, and then back to his eyes. “Why?”

John usually knew what Sherlock meant, but he really didn’t know which question he wanted answered; however, this time that wasn’t a problem. “If you want to know why I never hurt you with it or why I did any of it in the first place, the answer’s the same.” He shrugged, spreading his fingers a little, feeling the ache in them where he’d been twining them together so hard. “You’re… you were…” Huffing out a short sigh, he shook his head and said more firmly, “You’re my friend.”

In a flicker of motion, something a normal human wouldn’t have seen, Sherlock was on his feet, voice taking on a growling edge, fangs showing a bit more, eyes darkening further. “Attempting to manipulate me now isn’t the wisest course of action, John.” 

Shaking his head again, John remained seated with an enormous effort, his breathing faster, body struggling to react as his instincts told him he was in danger. “I’m not.”

“Fuck!” Sherlock was suddenly a few yards away again, hands on his hips, elbows out, glaring down at the floor, then turning around and directing the glare at John. “Why?”

John looked at Sherlock as if he’d asked a particularly stupid question, then huffed out a soft little laugh, shaking his head again. “Even I don’t know the whole answer to that one.”

“But now… more recently.” He gestured vaguely in John’s direction with one hand. “With what’s happened. Surely that’s changed everything.”

Sometimes, perhaps because he’d been trying so very, very hard to understand Sherlock since they met, John would have little breakthrough moments. Miniature epiphanies. And he thought it was like a slower, less brilliant, version of what Sherlock, himself did; where he accumulated clues and suddenly they all fit together. He leaned back in his chair, much of the fight or flight tension leaving him in a disconcerting rush. “That’s why you offered that deal, isn’t it?”

“What?” Sounding only irritable now, Sherlock scowled at him. It only made John more certain.

“You feel the same way. Even though you know you shouldn’t, even though there’s far more reasons against it than for it.” John nodded slowly. “You do.”

Sherlock’s pupils had shrunk again, though the tiny tips of his fangs still showed when he spoke, and he still looked cross. “My kind can’t afford to _have_ friends, John. It’s not logical or sensible.”

“I don’t think logic is involved in these things, Sherlock.” John felt like laughing, like shouting out the excess adrenaline, like running again—really _running_ —until he was emptied out of whatever it was inside him, because if it grew any more it would escape; he was afraid that, if it did, then he would find out exactly what it was. “I don’t think you’re at all qualified to even use the word sensible, actually,” he added with a smile that wouldn’t go away.

Sherlock looked at him as if he wasn’t certain whether to be angry or amused, then spun away to the mantel and plucked up his old skull, tossing it back and forth from hand to hand. “I still want to know more. What you can do may lead us to what you are. You’ve used it, obviously; enough to have some finesse. What else have you done with it?”

John rose, because Sherlock’s actions showed he was feeling agitation, that something inside him was restless and unsettled by all this—was it the same for him? Well, John knew the cure for that, and he could answer the question at the same time. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

Warily, Sherlock eyed him for a long moment, and then set the skull on the mantel again. “Alright.”

John moved toward the door, turning halfway there to walk backwards so that he still faced Sherlock. “In the army, when we were on patrol… when things were working well…” John spread his hands, seeking words that, yet again, he had never tried to wrap around the concepts inside him. “I could… track… everyone. You know how it can work with us?” He stopped at the door; hand on the knob even as Sherlock nodded, slowly following him, but stopping a yard or so away. “Imagine that, to a much lesser degree, but there at the edge of your awareness, spread amongst several people. Knowing where everyone is in relation to yourself.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened a little and his brows went up. 

John held out his hand, finding it easier this time to extend himself, and he did it deliberately, perhaps too much so. He felt the same connection he’d dared to initiate when they had gone into danger together, when they needed to be a unit, not a chaotic lunatic and his sometimes hesitant shadow; it had grown easier that last couple of times, but this was… startlingly easy, _too_ easy. It surged into place and John couldn’t stop the fierce grin that stretched his mouth as Sherlock’s lips parted on a soft gasp and his eyes widened further. 

Turning the handle, opening the door without looking, John stepped backward onto the landing, holding Sherlock’s gaze. In a soft, taunting voice he hardly knew as his own, John said, “Tag. You’re it.”

The next moment he was down the stairs and out the front door, flinging himself into the night with abandon, the way he hadn’t done for far too long. 

John knew, to the instant, when Sherlock’s startled stasis broke and he gave chase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few small fixes - 10/24/11  
> Update 11/12/12


	12. Sherlock - Chasing John

It was only due to having witnessed other children on a few occasions, entirely by accident, that Sherlock knew what John’s words— _‘Tag. You’re it.’_ —meant. A game. Hide and seek. Obviously Sherlock was meant to be the seeker. The hunter. 

He was unprepared for the surge of excitement that rushed through him at the realisation, but he was already out of the flat and the street door closing behind him before he had the brief thought that this might be unwise. Perhaps, perhaps not, but it had been John’s idea. John’s game. This development—oh, yes—this was _most_ interesting.

Pausing, he let the few passers-by recede in his awareness, scenting the air, extending his senses. John’s lingering scent was stronger to the right, but the night air was not still… Sherlock went left. Walking fast, nearly a run for most others, he continued along, eyes scanning, ears open, tuning out the traffic, the people, and the random but expected city noises. Several streets further, John’s merest trace caught him and he paused, spinning about, tracking the direction; then he was off, faster, along the new trail. 

Recognising the route as the one to the pub John liked to frequent now and then, Sherlock knew he was catching him up. If he were to go as fast as he was capable, it would be easy… but wait… he drifted to a stop, John’s scent dissipating; the flavour of him, his signature, fading, fading. Turning again, Sherlock tried to pick up where he’d lost him. He had hunted innumerable times before, he knew how this worked, and he should not have lost him this fast. 

However, he wasn’t hunting an ordinary human. Some of John’s words came to the forefront of his mind, the pertinent portions standing out as if the phrases hovered in the air before him: _“You know how it can work with us? …There at the edge of your awareness… Knowing where everyone is in relation to yourself.”_

A slow grin stretched Sherlock’s lips and he was quite aware of the subtle ache of his teeth elongating slightly. His vision improved as he let himself slide further into ‘hunting mode’, and he murmured approvingly, “Of course. Clever, John!”

Thinking back to the feeling of John’s presence, of that strange sensation that was almost like touching without physical contact, he remembered those times when they had worked together so perfectly. When he would turn and _know_ John was going to be… _there!_

“Oh, yes!” Sherlock barely realised he had spoken aloud in enthusiasm as he turned confidently and looked up. John stood at the edge of a rooftop across and down the street from Sherlock’s position. Even at this distance, he could see the lighter flash of John’s grin before he started moving along the roof. Sherlock was already heading toward him, calculating where and how to get up there, when John reached the corner of the rooftop, paused briefly to glance down at Sherlock before… leaping off and out toward the next building. 

Coming to a halt, Sherlock’s heart felt as if it thudded against his ribcage with enough force to burst through, as if it had struck there and stopped for a moment. But then he faintly heard a distant _‘thud, thump, thump, thump’_ and recognised it for what it was with an almost sickening surge of relief. The first hard touchdown and three hurried steps to take up momentum. Or a body landing and a soft few rolls. Either way, it was on the other roof, not the pavement. 

“Damn you, John!” He growled with anger borne of sudden relief. His instincts apparently still considered John a human. 

Recalling that wild chase after the cab, how he had blithely leapt across from one roof to the other and impatiently urged John to follow, Sherlock now had to wonder if John had paused in trepidation—his thought at the time—or if he had paused to wonder how the hell Sherlock had made the leap so easily. Or perhaps as an act to hide the fact that such a leap was not the effort it ought to have been. “Think it through,” he then muttered to himself as he concentrated again. He would be re-evaluating so many more things as he continued to incorporate this new knowledge. 

This connection that John had initiated only enhanced the senses he had always known; he could _feel_ John moving away. Further along the street, then… yes, down. Lower… closer. Sherlock was already running, light-footed and nearly silent down an alley. He turned, increased his speed—only a little beyond what a champion human athlete could manage—and the slight gossamer pressure of the night air on his skin increased commensurately. Rounding another corner, he just caught a flicker of movement at the far end of the street, a shape that wasn’t entirely distinct from the shadows around it. John!

Sherlock could no more keep himself from speeding up than he could stop gravity from pulling objects downward. Consulting the map in his head as the shape he knew to be John disappeared around the next corner, Sherlock knew that the other end of that alley held a high chain-link fence, blocking the way between the buildings that flanked it. He reached the mouth of the alley, not stopping this time, continuing onward to close the gap further and watching to see if John would stop or climb. 

Within a few yards of the fence, Sherlock stopped, turning about again, senses still alert as he scanned every shadow, every shape; the half-crushed cardboard shipping boxes, the overflowing rubbish skip, the fire escape leading up the side of one building, an inset doorway in the opposite building, a variety of bags and bottles and other rubbish fetched up against the fence. Rats lurked in the skip, a cat stalked the other side of the fence amidst the rubbish there, bugs skittered everywhere, old urine and vomit stank—various lingering traces of homeless people who had sheltered here in recent nights—Sherlock assessed them all. No John.

Turning, he let out a long breath, the faintest mist leaving him—his core temperature had lowered, but the activity kept it from falling to match ambient—and slipped into shadow, going still. 

Minutes passed, Sherlock could remain silent and unmoving for quite a long while, and then… _there!_ … a breath. Soft, nearly silent, but not wholly. Triangulating, Sherlock saw only bricks in the shadow of the rubbish skip. Irregular outlines, as they were ‘reclaimed’ bricks—or made to look like them—with bits of white and dark smeared upon them, breaking up their neat rectangles. He watched, slowly, so, so slowly, tilting his head, as he reached for that connection to John again. Tried to think of it like a solid thread between them, something physical he could use to _pull_ , in the manner that one of his kind could summon a thrall without speaking. 

A surge of sensation, exactly like he had felt earlier, encompassed him. _John_ filled his senses as suddenly as if he’d been thrust into Sherlock’s arms; almost moved to gasp at the strength of it, still he didn’t quite do so. Instead, he heard a soft sound like someone else gasping nearby. 

Right before his eyes, the irregular lines on the shadowy bricks seemed to fall into a new arrangement, like one of those three-dimensional pictures you had to blur or cross your eyes to see properly, and suddenly it looked like a person. A person crouched in the very lee, the darkest part of the shadows by the skip, and Sherlock inhaled sharply in spite of himself. 

In a burst of movement, the shape dodged around the skip toward the fence. John! Sherlock was after him in the blink of an eye with a soft, “Ha!” sound of victory, and his fingertips only _just_ scraped along the back of John’s trouser leg as he went up and over the fence. 

John’s soft, breathless chuckle at the near miss was barely audible. 

“Oh, no you don’t!” rumbled Sherlock as he went over after him. Touching down with the softest of sounds, he was off and after John at once, moving even faster now. His prey was close, he wouldn’t lose him again.

The scent of green things and water came to him on the cold night air. John was aiming for the park a few streets away, he was certain of it. How fast he was moving! This, of course, was why John had got away on those stealthy missions in Afghanistan— _’they never caught me’_ he’d said—this was it exactly, along with being able to lose himself in the shadows, no doubt. John was moving nearly as fast as one of Sherlock’s kind, certainly faster than any normal human could manage, and only Sherlock’s vampiric hearing enabled him to catch John’s soft footfalls. It was highly unlikely a human would have noticed a thing. 

How marvellous, Sherlock thought with something like glee, only darker and wilder, as he steadily closed the gap between himself and John. How interesting. How exciting. How absolutely _not_ boring!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some small fixes - 10/24/11  
> Update 11/12/12


	13. John - Interesting Developments

John was exhilarated and, if he let himself think about it too much, he suspected he might be a little afraid, but—at least for him—that only fed the excitement. It took Sherlock just a tiny bit longer than John thought it would for him to use that connection, that sense of one another, to track John. However, as he should have expected, once Sherlock learned something, he was usually brilliant at applying it. 

The gap between them closed fast, and John was using every trick, his senses wide open, feeling Sherlock at the periphery of them like a bright spark in a dim maze. It was incredible. John absolutely thrilled to the game of it, enjoyed pushing himself and then pushing himself further; and just like the wildest of those secret night runs in Afghanistan, he was entirely engaged and aware, alive! The night was his and he was its, and as their chase progressed, the connection between John and Sherlock strengthened. He could feel it, like an ephemeral string stretching off into the darkness; the more Sherlock drew on it to find him and the more John drew on it to keep track of Sherlock, the stronger it became; going from a fine, nearly-there thing to something on the edge of tangible. 

John knew he didn’t have time to make the fence in the one blocked alley, so he wrapped himself in shadows, let himself go still and silent. He didn’t understand how it worked, had no idea what it really was, but most people would look right past his particular shadowy spot—it didn’t work properly in the daytime—and just _not_ see anything that didn’t belong there. Fond of science-fiction as a boy, he had long thought of it as some kind of ‘stealth field’, although he only ever used the term inside his head.

It worked, though. Sherlock passed by him, John knew he had not been seen, but then Sherlock stopped. John knew he must have sensed _something_ , perhaps John’s scent was still noticeable amongst all the others? He wasn’t certain, but he kept still and watched as Sherlock moved into the shadow of the opposite building and… blurred. John blinked, seeing him clearly enough at first, but then couldn’t seem to keep him in focus. It was like… yes… something very like what John was doing, and he would have bet that a normal person wouldn’t have seen Sherlock at all. He let out a soft breath, it would have been a gasp in any other situation, and struggled to keep still. 

Until it felt as though Sherlock reached _into_ John and pulled on his very _self_. Not pulled, _yanked_! John gasped, suddenly full of Sherlock’s scent and presence; as though they stood face to face, a breath apart. Closer. Sherlock’s head turned toward him and he heard him inhale.

John felt a burst of fear-tinged excitement and used it to fuel a sudden dash for the fence. He heard Sherlock’s breathy exclamation, the man almost upon him, and his touch sparked a thrill of goosebumps all the way up John’s leg that made a soft laugh escape him as he went over. Oh, so close, this was just too good! 

Sherlock wouldn’t be easily fooled again. John just knew he would use that same trick; which was exactly what John had wanted to show him, in the first place. Which meant John would need an advantage. He made for the nearest park.

Whether it was the near-miss, the pull of that connection, or a second wind, John wasn’t certain, but he was over the fence in moments. The invigorating embrace of even the tamed greenery of the park was palpable. He had always felt the difference in wooded areas, the different flavour of a pocket of living, thriving nature—a few of the older places they’d gone through in Afghanistan had almost frightened him with the strength of their pull on that other part of him—and it felt to him as though the shadows were easier to slide through and the trees just ready to wrap him in their arms and keep him safe. 

It was cold, John knew it by the clouds of his breath that rose up through the faint spears of yellowish light from the pillar lamps along the paved path not too far behind him, but he didn’t feel it in the slightest. Nothing here was completely dark to him, even in the most hidden nooks, and he made his way as comfortably as if he’d been there a million times; even though this park had only seen him a handful of times in his whole life. All the while he was dodging and slipping through the darker, woodier portions of the park, he felt Sherlock behind him. Felt him so clearly that he could have stopped at any moment and pointed directly to the other man’s position without thinking about it for an instant. That position, in fact, was closing again. Still.

John had gained only a small margin with the alley fence; and he realised only a few moments after he dove into the greenery in the park that some part of him had chosen this location deliberately. This was the best place for the chase to end. It was late enough that the park was empty, or it was at the moment, and he supposed that was something he had instinctively counted upon, too. If this went badly, he didn’t want it to happen in the flat, didn’t want to involve Mrs. Hudson or any neighbours. This was just between the two of them.

Halting in the hollow between a big evergreen shrub and an oak tree, John settled himself in and pulled the shadows around him once more; Sherlock hardly made a sound, slipping along John’s track as skilfully as if he did this all the time. Maybe he did, John had no way of knowing, but John had done this many, many times. However, Sherlock was far more intelligent than John, and John knew it. As soon as Sherlock had gone past him, John moved slowly, catching a branch overhead and levering himself up into the tree. Sturdy lower branches not even shaking noticeably, the tree’s energy—oaks were good for this—was deep and strong. John sunk into it, he couldn’t have explained it fully if he’d tried, and knew this was a better ‘stealth field’ than the shadows alone. It was almost as if the tree _wanted_ to help him. 

Moments later, Sherlock returned so stealthily that John didn’t even see him until he was standing beneath the tree, turning his head slowly as if studying every branch, leaf, and blade of grass. He moved a few steps away, just at the base of an upward slope of thick grass, and John knew he was not going to go any further; he surely felt John as strongly as John felt him. It was incredible! 

Sherlock drew on their connection, just as hard as before, but John was expecting it. He flinched, biting his lip at the strength of the sensation to avoid making a sound; it was so tempting to respond, to give it a pull in return, to surrender to the urge to follow that link. They would have to bring this to an end sometime, of course, though John hated to let go of the thrill of this chase, of the hunt, because it _was_ as much a hunt for him as it was for Sherlock—who led and who followed did not automatically dictate who lost the game.

With a sudden impulse, John tried something new; instead of pulling on their connection, he pushed. As much as he was able to focus on the feeling of it, he imagined a big, hard _shove_.

Sherlock gasped and whirled to face John’s direction, staggering back a step further up the grassy rise. In a moment he would think to lift his head and John didn’t flatter himself that Sherlock would miss him; this was it, then. A huge wave of excitement and fear and something else he couldn’t name—though it was wild and dark and _strong_ —rose up in John and, on the strength of it, he leapt.

Even as he swept Sherlock back off his feet and down onto that grass-covered slope, John was rolling them both to deflect the impact. John heard the grunt pushed out of the taller man, anyway, and felt Sherlock’s hands grab onto him, bruisingly strong. The connection that he’d been feeling all throughout their chase flared up, enveloping them both. As he used every trick of hand-to-hand combat, moving almost on automatic, John’s mouth went dry. It was entirely possible that he was, as Sherlock had teased him many times before, an idiot. Only, this time? No, he really was.

He knew nothing of Vampire customs, really, nothing much at all about their abilities—only the things he had been learning from Sherlock—and, as much as he knew his own wants and preferences, he had never done this with anyone else, not like _this_. Certainly not anyone to which he was sexually attracted. Now he knew why. John had got hard on a chase before, the physical side-effect of his excitement and enjoyment, but it was easily dismissed as just that—a directionless bodily-reaction. However, right then, as he used every ounce of strength, know-how, and desperate speed—still lesser than Sherlock’s—John was getting hard. 

John’s body was running at what felt like more than one hundred percent, grappling and rolling and flipping over and back with Sherlock, and he knew he was grinning like they were on a ride at the fair, would be laughing if he had the breath for it. Every time he thought he had Sherlock, the man slipped free or simply twisted out of his grasp with sheer strength and flexibility that was incredible; conversely, John was barely able to keep out of Sherlock’s attempts to restrain him, knew he would be black and blue and scraped raw here and there tomorrow, he also knew he didn’t care, at all. 

Fetching to a stop at long last, John had managed to get Sherlock’s arms trapped, raised up above his head, elbows bent, with John holding those deceptively delicate-looking wrists and his legs twined in Sherlock’s. Both of them were breathing hard, Sherlock’s eyes huge and dark, his fangs extended. Though Sherlock’s skin was cool where John touched him, now that they were still, he could feel that smooth pale flesh warming under his touch; of course, John was pretty sure he was giving off enough heat to warm their whole flat through a snow-storm. For nearly a minute, they stared at each other, creating a small vapour cloud between them—mostly due to John’s heated breathing—and as much as he knew he was still grinning like a fool, John could clearly tell that Sherlock’s fangs were only showing so clearly because he was smiling a bit, as well. Obviously not a relaxed smile, but still a smile. 

“I’m surprised, John,” Sherlock finally said, his voice deeper and with a growling edge that John now knew accompanied his more vampiric side coming to the fore. He shifted, testing John’s hold, but not seriously. 

“I am too, a bit,” John admitted, his voice rough and breathless, but he hoped it would appear to be from the exertion. “You felt it,” he said after a pause, eager to hear what Sherlock would say.

“Yes.” Almost whispering, Sherlock’s eyes were half-closed. John felt him move subtly; at the same time, the connection between them flared up, vibrating in some strange way that John could only compare to one of the strings on Sherlock’s violin being plucked. John’s breath hitched, his body responding as if he had been touched, head to foot, by something cool and silky. “I still do,” Sherlock added as John tightened his grip reflexively. “As do you.”

“God, Sherlock,” John breathed, swallowing thickly. “I’ve had this all my adult life and never…” Shaking his head, he started to move, preparing to let Sherlock go.

Sherlock made a soft growling sound that caught his attention sharply. “Don’t.” Shifting beneath John again, eyes closed, breath a little faster, Sherlock spoke with obvious difficulty. “Give me a minute to…” Another surge rolled through their connection and John’s head dropped forward as a soft moan escaped him; he was finding it difficult to keep still, the urge to shift just enough to rub against Sherlock was getting stronger. “John, I can feel you… smell you…” Every word, even the breathy pauses, slipped through John like soft, feathery touches on his nerves.

“I know,” sighed John, leaning down to inhale near Sherlock’s throat, where his scarf had come loose in their struggle. He wanted to know what that smooth, pale skin tasted like. 

“John!” The sharp growl made John’s eyes spring open, and he was close enough to Sherlock’s face that he could see his nostrils flare with each breath, could probably have counted each of his dark eyelashes. “If you give me the opportunity… I _will_ bite you… I don’t think… I don’t think I could stop myself.” He looked pained, as if even saying the words was a struggle.

“Our deal,” John reminded him, tightening his hold, trying to pull his rational mind away from the seductive thrum of that connection. It was both of them, not just John. What had he done? 

“I promised it wouldn’t be against your will,” Sherlock growled, arching his torso up into John, twisting a bit in his grasp. “This… this is like… John, you don’t know…”

Offering up a growl of his own, John pressed down into Sherlock, this time moving so that his erection pushed into the other man’s lean hip. Sherlock gave a growling gasp and rolled his body up into John’s, at the same time as doing whatever it was he had before with their connection, his head fell back hard into the grass and his eyes rolled up. “Bloody hell, John!” 

“Yeah, it may not be blood-lust,” John rumbled in a deeper, rougher tone than he was used to hearing in his own throat, “but whatever it is, I’m feeling some of it, too.” Shaking his head sharply, trying to clear it. “This has _never_ happened.”

“Hold still… I… I should be able to...” A shudder moved through Sherlock, and John heard what sounded like a whimper. John shuddered, too, the movement, the sound, it was like they skittered right through his pleasure centres, leaving him with the image of Sherlock naked beneath him, pale skin reflecting the moonlight. The thought of hearing that whimper again and again, of tasting the skin he could so clearly smell, of burying himself deep in Sherlock’s body spun through John’s head. 

“It… you wouldn’t kill me?” The question slipped out, almost on its own—or so it seemed—and John watched Sherlock’s tightly-closed eyes spring open, showing so black that his irises were just a tiny pale circles.

“No!” Almost bitten out, the single word accompanied a full-body jerk, as if the word alone could not convey the denial well enough. “Why the fuck do you think I let you live?” He let his head fall back, licking his lips as if he was horribly thirsty. “Even after you put a bloody gun to my head, I found excuses not to kill you. Excuses to keep you—” Sherlock broke off, shaking his head, clearly unwilling to finish the sentence. 

“I nearly let you kill me because I couldn’t shoot you when I had the chance,” John countered. “There was a moment, where the gun and you were aligned just right.” He shook his head. “Same. The same.” He leaned down, stopping a few centimetres away from Sherlock’s mouth. “What is this? I… Jesus, Sherlock I want to…” Biting his lip, John lifted and turned his head, turned away from temptation.

“I can’t think… I should know what it is… but I can’t…” Sherlock growled again, writhing a bit in John’s hold, and another cool whisper of sensation stroked his nerve-endings again via their connection, making John shiver and actually moan this time. “What do you want, John? What? Tell me,” Sherlock’s gaze caught John’s again.

Looking him right in the eyes, John answered immediately, “I want to fuck you. God, Sherlock, I want to touch and smell and taste you and fuck you so badly, it’s like my whole bloody body is on fire with it!” Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered half-closed, his breath catching on another growling whimper, and he nodded jerkily. John eyed Sherlock’s mouth, his lips, his fangs—they actually came to quite dainty little points—and the idea of them sinking into his flesh didn’t daunt him as much as he thought it would. In fact… God, in fact… “It’s a puncture, right? Or punctures. Not tearing, not…” He swallowed as Sherlock’s eyes opened wide again.

“Punctures,” Sherlock rumbled, twisting slightly in John’s hold, the motion rubbing their bodies together just a little, but it was enough to be maddening. “Once I’ve… once I’ve fed… pressure with the underside of my tongue.” He swallowed hard, “releases a natural coagulant.” 

“Brilliant,” John whispered, genuinely if a bit distantly impressed, and lowered his head, tilting it. Closer. Too close. “Could you stand it? Can we?” 

Sherlock didn’t even bother answering aloud, instead he suddenly lifted his head, mouth sealing to John’s, and both of them groaned at nearly the same instant as their lips parted and tongues met. At that, the connection between them swelled into such vivid life that John thought he was going to come, right then, as it made every nerve in his body hum. Apparently Sherlock felt the same, rolling his body up into John’s in obvious aroused excitement as their tongues swirled and twined hungrily.

John ran his tongue-tip along one of Sherlock’s fangs, assessing its shape and the fine point at the tip—sharper than a regular human canine tooth, of course—and he felt it slide into the surface of his tongue with almost no pain. A tiny bit of blood welled up and Sherlock growl-moaned deeply, nearly breaking free of John’s hold, and immediately began to suck on John’s tongue. This only made John press down against Sherlock’s body all the more, the two of them now, basically rutting against each other as Sherlock did to John’s tongue what he’d rather the man were doing to his cock. 

Pulling away, barely managing to get his tongue back, John was panting and shaking now, so bloody aroused it was painful. “I’m going to lose my fucking mind in a minute… God, Sherlock… yes. Yes, you can bite me.”

“Oh, John,” Sherlock groaned, eyes rolling closed as he shuddered again. With a sudden hard buck of his whole body, Sherlock twisted loose of John’s hold. In a dizzying flurry of disorientation and frighteningly fast motion, John was on his back beneath Sherlock, who leaned down to rumble against John’s mouth, “And yes, John… oh, yes, you _will_ fuck me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some small fixes - 10/24/11  
> Update 11/12/12


	14. Sherlock – Closing The Circuit

Sherlock had been aroused before, of course he had, but this… this _thing_ that had been growing inside him during their impromptu hunt, this game of fox and hound with John, was something so much more powerful that likening it to mere ‘arousal’ was like comparing a candle to an arc lamp. 

He only realised how deeply the hunt was affecting him when John actually surprised him by taking him down and holding him. Holding. _him_. Only another of his kind should be able to restrain him manually, despite his weakened condition; however, John was not one of his kind. Whatever he was, he was stronger and faster than even Sherlock had deduced. Granted, Sherlock had been going by that one encounter, as well as backtracking in his memories to review the things John had done that had—to his shame—slipped by Sherlock’s notice at the time of their occurrence, but he was so rarely wrong that the impact of this revelation had been greater than it might have been. Everything about this situation, about John Watson, had been regularly surprising him. Every time he thought he knew the man, something new cropped up to force Sherlock to change his parameters. 

The link between them, at first a handy and intriguing tool to allow them to be more sharply aware of one another, became a connection; and though Sherlock’s only experience of something similar had been the bond between a Vampire and a Thrall, this was evolving into something more. He was blurred into John’s _presence_ so much that it felt as though he was half existing in John’s physical space. The sound of John’s heartbeat throbbed through Sherlock, the scent of John filled his senses, from the blood thrumming beneath the other man’s skin to the musk of his sweat and his arousal, making Sherlock want him so badly it literally hurt. The longer John held him there, the more his body overtook his mind; even though he’d cautioned John not to release him, he was still a predator, still subject to the reactions inherent in what he was and who he was. 

John’s rough-edged voice revealing that he wanted Sherlock just as badly, that he was willing to let Sherlock drink of him, shot a frighteningly strong surge of blood-lust, as well as a dose of intense _physical_ lust right through the vampire. The idea of sinking his fangs into John while John sunk his cock into Sherlock flashed through his mind and burnt its way into his imagination. He had to have it. Had to have John, had to be had by John. The shredded remains of his control barely kept him from biting John the instant the man was beneath him, but he knew it was just a matter of time before he snapped completely. Leaning down, he all but purred, “And yes, John… oh, yes, you _will_ fuck me.” 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock!” John growled at Sherlock’s throaty statement, hips twitching up slightly in blatant physical response. Sherlock inhaled near John’s neck, forced to close his mouth or risk drooling like a gauche teenager whose fangs had just dropped for the first time. 

John was literally panting with the effort to concentrate on speaking, Sherlock could tell, and he thought he could vaguely sense John’s frustration woven into his arousal; although, he wasn’t sure if it was some chimera of their connection or just his own observational skills blending with his vampiric abilities. “We’d best have a go soon, then, Sherlock, or I’m going to fucking come in my damned pants!”

Sherlock laughed, low and growling and only partially borne of humour; he had to close his eyes and bite his lip at the reactive groan from John, because it sent a shock of similar response through Sherlock. Shaking his head, he leaned lower and, even as he was about to lick into John’s mouth for a kiss, the shorter man was lifting his face and parting his lips. Both of them made low, harsh groaning sounds of pleasure and need, Sherlock grinding down against John, who rutted up into him with blatant approval.

Pulling free of John’s mouth, Sherlock shifted, enjoying the pressure and friction on his blood-engorged cock for a moment before he mustered language—he wasn’t about to be outdone by John, no matter how hard it was to think—and asked as he would another of his kind, “John, can you control yourself if I let go?”

John hesitated, still breathing rapidly, but after a long moment he closed his eyes, swallowed heavily and nodded. “Yeah, okay. Yes.”

Sherlock cautiously released him, noting how John’s body tensed differently, going from straining against Sherlock’s hold to restraining himself from leaping up at once. With quick, economical movements, Sherlock nearly lost several buttons from his coat as he opened it, swirled it off and spread it on a patch of thicker grass a little further down the slope from John’s prone position. This spot was darker, overhung by drooping tree branches and half-concealed by a shaggy bush at its base. He nodded at his overcoat. “Lie there.”

John got up slowly, another might think he was sore or tired, but Sherlock knew it was the cautious movements of someone who did not trust themselves wholly. Did John want to break and run or tackle Sherlock to the ground again? He couldn’t stop the feral grin that came to his lips at both ideas and next had the thought that, if he got any harder, he might well cause himself physical damage soon. 

Being John, no matter what mysterious heritage had played into his birth, even in this strange situation, in his over-ramped condition, the shorter man avoided getting his mud- and grass- covered shoes on Sherlock’s coat. It was endearing, and the very fact that this was so threw Sherlock a bit, taking the tiniest edge off of his ardour. At the edge of his coat, Sherlock toed off his shoes and noted rather distantly that his hands shook a little as he unfastened his trousers.

“Sherlock… oh, Jesus,” John breathed, apparently seeing Sherlock slide his trousers and pants down derailed whatever the other man had been about to say. He couldn’t help grinning as he knelt down on his coat, straddling John’s hips. “But… Sherlock, we don’t… oh, you’re going to fucking kill me,” John moaned as his hands—so hot!—ran up Sherlock’s thighs toward his hips, fingers splaying over the outer curve of his buttocks.

“Not just now,” Sherlock teased, unsteady hands swift on John’s belt and trouser fastenings, he heard a faint ripping sound as he pushed John’s jumper and shirt up, revealing his stomach. So ordinary-seeming, a layer of flesh hiding the muscles Sherlock knew lay below, and those muscles jumped when Sherlock pulled aside the opening of John’s trousers to reveal simple white briefs beneath. The scent of him was immediately stronger and Sherlock couldn’t stop the rumbling moan that escaped him at the sight of the healthy line of hard flesh defined by the fabric. “Maybe not ever,” he added covetously as he ran his fingertips lightly along that ridge of hardness. 

“Fuck, Sherlock, touch me…” John moaned, stomach muscles tightening as he shifted his hips upward slightly. His fingers dug into Sherlock’s arse, pulling him forward and down, and a thrill of reaction moved through Sherlock as his balls rubbed against the fabric of John’s trousers. “I swear to fucking God, I’m not going to last five minutes!”

“Don’t worry, John,” Sherlock rumbled, bending down and licking into John’s mouth again, relishing the heat, the eager thrust of his tongue, unconsciously rutting against John, bending over having brought his cock to a position where it was rubbing alongside John’s own fabric-covered shaft. It wasn’t a conscious decision; he was so caught up in the blinding lust between them that it was almost a surprise. He forced himself to stop. “If we survive this madness, I’m sure we can find an excuse to do it again.”

“Thank fucking God,” John growled and reached up, catching the nape of Sherlock’s neck and dragging him down again to kiss him hard and thoroughly. He deliberately pressed his tongue-tip into one of Sherlock’s fangs; obviously the accidental prick earlier hadn’t put him off. 

The taste of his blood, even that tiny bit of it, made Sherlock groan and practically devour John’s tongue, sucking it lustily and once again rocking his hips against John’s. It was heady and strong, John’s blood, full of life and something electric shimmered through him at the taste, a ripple of reaction that Sherlock thought might have something to do with their connection. If he could think, perhaps he could figure it out, but it was all he could do not to just immediately bite John properly and hump himself raw against the man while drinking his fill. 

“No!” Sherlock pulled his mouth away, panting. “You are fucking me; that’s final.”

An entirely unexpected laugh burst out of John and his head fell back, hands resting on Sherlock’s thighs, the movement of his belly bounced Sherlock ever so slightly. “Oh, yeah, as if you’re going to have to force me to do _that_.” He shook his head and his hands slid up till he was once again gripping Sherlock’s arse. Spreading his fingers a bit, getting a good, lusty grip, he said in a low, sultry tone, “I want to fuck you so badly I can taste it!”

Growling at the delicious way John’s words and voice made him feel, Sherlock caught the waistband of John’s trousers and pants, tugging them down. “We’re certainly on the same page,” he rumbled as he pushed against John’s hold to lift up a bit, baring John down to his upper thighs. “Oh… oh, yes…” Sherlock breathed as John’s rigid cock was revealed, thick and dark with blood, foreskin revealing the glistening glans. Pre-ejaculate had soaked into John’s briefs and his lower belly was slick with it. 

Shifting off of John, kneeling to the side of his hip, Sherlock snatched up his nearer hand and quickly used John’s own undershirt to wipe his fingers off. John was frowning at him, but allowed him to do it; however, when Sherlock then sucked John’s first two fingers into his mouth, the light obviously dawned. John whispered, “Yes, oh fuck, yes.” 

Fellating John’s fingers more than a little, Sherlock flicked his tongue into the web of flesh between John’s fingers, pressed and swirled his tongue along the sensitive pads, letting his hungry over-productive saliva work for him. Releasing John’s fingers, he turned the man’s palm upward and licked it, up to the fingers, leaving plenty of moisture there to be going on with. No instruction was needed, John’s hand slid around his hip and behind him, immediately aiming for the cleft of his exposed arse.

At the same time, Sherlock bent down, scooped up John’s wet-tipped cock, and didn’t hesitate any further about repeating the oral performance on it. John groaned loudly in wordless approval, and ran saliva-wet fingers around the rim of Sherlock’s puckered entrance. Plunging down and sucking upward, Sherlock deliberately relaxed the ring of muscle at his anus as much as he could, feeling John carefully sliding one fingertip in only a moment later. He released John’s cock long enough to murmur, “I won’t break, start with two.”

“Fuck,” John rasped, but he obediently pushed with both fingers, circling and massaging at the entrance, still being cautious. 

Sherlock sucked him in again, the taste was musky and warm, beyond the physical heat of him, and the blood infusing that shaft of flesh was so very tantalising. When John’s fingers entered him, slowly working inward, Sherlock moaned in approval, suckling all the harder on John’s cock. Saliva and pre-ejaculate made plenty of lubrication, it would only be a matter of surviving John’s preparation of him. His reactive efforts at fellatio garnered him a deep groan from John and a more lusty thrust from those fingers; the very slight sensation of his muscles stretching too fast, the subtle burn of it, was nothing compared to the pleasure. Groaning, body shivering with lust, Sherlock pulled off of John’s cock with a wet ‘pop’. “Enough, good enough.”

John slid his fingers out as Sherlock moved to straddle him again, kneeling up and positioning himself. Settling down slowly, Sherlock threw his head back as a long, low groaning growl escaped him at the sensation of John’s cock filling him, not only hard and thick, but so _hot_! One of John’s wonderfully hot hands came to rest upon Sherlock’s hip, guidance and support, and John let loose a tooth-gritted groan of equal pleasure. Sherlock was suddenly aware of their connection again, though it had been constantly in the background of his thoughts and sensations; it was as if John’s entering him had strengthened it, as if their shared pleasure was feeding back and forth along that connection. The feeling translated as a full-body caress along every nerve, gentle but impossible to ignore, and he couldn’t think, couldn’t anticipate what it might mean, but he enjoyed the feeling thoroughly.

“Come on… come on… oh, fuck, so tight…” Whispering encouragement, John was breathing more heavily and rubbing Sherlock’s hip, then gripping again. When Sherlock was finally all the way down, John’s cock deep inside him, they both groaned in mutual pleasure, Sherlock’s deeper and more growl-edged, John’s breathier and ending in a soft ‘Jesus bloody fuck!’

“You’re so delightfully profane when you’re aroused, John,” Sherlock drawled, eyes rolling up into his head when he rocked his hips. “Oh!” The wave of pleasure was far stronger than he’d expected. 

“God!” John gasped, his own hips bucking up slightly, which was so much more intense that Sherlock shouted aloud in wordless ecstasy. Before he could even think, John groaned loudly, “Jesusfuckingchristdothatagain!”

Chuckling wickedly, if a bit breathlessly, Sherlock bent down and cupped John’s cheek. “In a moment… but first,” he whispered, turning John’s head to bare his neck more fully.

“Oh, yeah… okay…” John whispered back, and Sherlock felt him shiver. 

Leaning down, the change of angle making him even more aware of John’s cock inside him, Sherlock shivered, too, as he licked the hot skin over John’s carotid, feeling the throbbing of the blood rushing through it, making sure he was in the proper spot. “John… oh, yes…” He murmured right against John’s throat, “I promise this will feel _very_ good after a moment,” and then he sank his fangs into John’s skin at last.

Sherlock tasted John’s blood filling his mouth, felt John’s whole body convulse in reaction, even as Sherlock’s own body was practically _vibrating_ in similar response. The connection between them that had been so strong, that had grown even stronger just moments ago when John was finally inside Sherlock, now suddenly flared into an astonishingly vivid and intense new level. Sherlock had reassured John, knowing his bite would cause a moment’s pain and then pleasure, but this was something else. At the same time that Sherlock was caught up in the increasingly overwhelming sensations, John gave a lusty, rough-edged shout; Sherlock knew that he would have been crying out, too, if not for the fact that his mouth was fastened to John’s throat. As it was, his own loud, throaty groan seemed to vibrate right through his head.

With a feeling akin to the strongest orgasm he had ever felt in his life combined with the strongest ecstasy he’d ever experienced from feeding, Sherlock’s every nerve ending felt as if it suddenly exploded into cold flame. Though it was, technically, pleasure, the spike of searing intensity turned it to something else entirely and Sherlock was only vaguely aware of coming just as the explosion of sensory overload sent him into a white-edged darkness where there was nothing at all, not even dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update 11/12/12


	15. John - Maybe A Dream, Maybe Not

John drifted through shadowy images and soft sounds, dreams too vague to remain in his head long enough to understand, a growing awareness of the fact that he was sleeping, which meant he was nearly awake. Maybe. 

He lay on something hard, could feel cold air on his skin here and there, but a solid warmth covered his torso, comforting, though he wasn't aware enough to define why or how. The scent of dew-wet grass and greenery mingled with the scents of earth and night air, as well as another scent that his instincts identified as known and safe before dismissing it; however, another scent came to him, unknown, and he realised that this was what had pulled him from the comfortable, quiet darkness of unconsciousness. Sweet and sharp, like wildflowers blooming and fresh-cut grass, with a faintly musky undertone like clean sweat in the sun, the scent pricked at John's brain, his gut, telling him he should know it, should recognise it, but he couldn't think, couldn't wake enough to understand.

A whisper-soft voice drifted into his ears, barely audible, perhaps it was only in his imagination. _"Cousin, how came you to this?"_

Wanting to speak, John couldn't muster language; he was so deeply in the grip of sleep—or on the edge of it—that he wasn't sure what was real or what was dream.

_"My vow I mean you no ill, Cousin. How have you come to consort with one of the Life-stealers?"_

Struggling with that heavy paralysis, John thought he managed to mumble, "Wha? Who're you?" Even so, he couldn't open his eyes.

_"This is a dangerous game you play, a path you cannot unfollow without dire consequence. Has no one counselled you?"_

"Path?" John slurred, fighting against the thick pull of sleep, as though he'd been drugged, and it took a huge effort to make his lips move, but he felt almost certain he was managing it. "What cons'quence? What're y'talkin'bout?"

 _"I would not have come to accost you thusly in your bower, only I saw your hunt, felt the sealing of the ritual bond, and yet there were none to officiate, none of your House to witness... nor his. No wards here, either, and that, too I found passing strange, Cousin. Thus, with no clear answer evident, I have bruised custom to seek surcease from my burning curiosity."_

As he listened, focusing on the soft, barely-audible voice, John felt tingles in his extremities, the vague awareness of his body growing stronger. He was more confident that his mumbles were, indeed, making it past his lips. "Dunno what’s... ritual bond is. What house? Don't unnerstand wha..."

_"Ah, now it comes clear. You are one of those left to fend for yourself amongst Humankind. I mourn your lack, Cousin. And to what it has led you. Perhaps I was unwise to seek you out."_

"Who're you?" John pushed himself, pushed for full consciousness, pushed for clarity, but it didn't give more than the merest tiny increment. "Don't go... tell me... please, what... what're you talkin'bout?"

For a long time—maybe it wasn't, but John couldn't be sure of anything—there was silence, a hint of nightbreeze-blown branches rustled overhead, and then the voice spoke again. _"To repay custom and my trespass, I will offer what help I may. Heed me before you fade, Cousin: mind you hunt the dark moon here, alone, and if I may, I will."_

John tried to understand. "Hunt the dark moon." He felt exhausted and yet hadn't really managed to pull himself from what he was increasingly worried was more than just sleep. Whatever progress he had begun to make was faltering already.

_"You wane and I have dared more than was wise, myself. I would not be known to your... consort. The dark moon, Cousin."_

"Dark moon... hunt the dark moon," John repeated, but doubted it came through his lips. "Wait... wait!" He tried, as hard as he had ever tried—it felt rather like when he'd first awakened in hospital after nearly dying from his shoulder wound—and it was exactly that pointless, because he was sucked back into nothingness just as surely as he had been then. Only back then it was him being sedated, but now? He didn't know what was wrong with him, but his thoughts seemed to be grinding to a halt. All he could do was try to hold onto this dream, or whatever it was, as the deep, thick darkness of unconsciousness reclaimed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some small fixes - 10/24/11  
> Update 11/12/12


	16. Sherlock - Memories And Waking

Once, when Sherlock was young and utterly heedless of custom or self-preservation, he had teased and flirted his way into the interest of one of Mycroft’s council cronies. Mycroft had subtly warned him off Victor, as had several others, but that only spurred Sherlock to defy them. 

When Victor took Sherlock to his bed, it had been far, far more than Sherlock could have imagined—and he had a rather vivid and extensive imagination—and only half of that unimagined experience had been pleasure. Oh, intense, amazing, unbelievable pleasure, granted; however, there had been pain, too. Victor had not only taken Sherlock’s body repeatedly, in many ways, over long hours that brought waves and peaks of ecstasy in amongst shallows and troughs of pain, but Victor had drained Sherlock’s blood. The ancient Vampire had taken young Sherlock down and down until he was aware of almost nothing but his heartbeat slowing, and how every decreasing throb of it shot a low thrum of pleasure through his body, followed by an ache that defied describing, save that it felt as if his very soul was being torn away from him in slow increments. He had been too weak to protest, too emptied to scream, and he knew with absolute certainty—only after it was too late—that Victor meant to kill him, the true death, and would relish Sherlock’s very last drop of blood without any remorse whatsoever.

Mycroft had found them, burst in and nearly killed Victor—would have, except he didn’t like to start a war between their House and one of the oldest Houses existing—and carried Sherlock away even as the last flutters of vivid darkness sucked him under. Mycroft had given him his own blood, as had Mummy and two of Mycroft’s most loyal and hardy thralls, repeatedly, and Sherlock had awakened feeling exactly as if he had been on the brink of death and snatched away by a hair’s breadth. Weak as a kitten, he had spent weeks recovering; however, strangely enough, when he did recover, he was stronger than before and faster, his senses sharper and his mind like quicksilver and electricity. Whether these things would have developed in him eventually, anyway, he didn’t know, but along with these benefits had come a loathing of feeding on unwilling victims, a deep aversion to the intensity of sating himself fully. He had gained, but he had lost, too. 

The memory of the aftermath of his experience with Victor trickled through Sherlock’s mind as he fluttered up into consciousness piecemeal, like a flock of confused bats blundering out of a cave and into the moonlight. Fragments of thought and memory and sensation flitted through him in confusing, disjointed fashion. He felt heavy and flattened, drained of thought and intention; conversely, the sluggishness of his body was rapidly fading. As he took a deep breath, then another, it felt as though his heart began beating anew, as if what it pushed through his veins was something more than blood, something infused with shimmering life and the sweetest hint of pleasure. Moving all through him, even down to his fingers and toes, a gentle surge of warmth that was like a caress along his very cells and nerve-endings. 

Stronger, but very similar to what he’d felt from the connection with John earlier… John… _John!_

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open as he gasped softly, aware at once that he was still straddling John, his forehead against John’s neck, sticky dampness on his mouth and cheek. Lifting his head, he could see blood smeared and drying on John’s neck around a vividly-bruised lovebite with two dark red spots, exactly spaced to match Sherlock’s fangs. For the briefest instant a sharp spike of fear went through Sherlock like a shaft of ice, but the next moment he realised that he could hear John’s heartbeat, slow but steady.

“John?” His voice was low and hoarse, and he put his hand to John’s cheek, finding him cool but not cold to the touch. “John, can you hear me?”

Lips moving without making a sound, head shifting away then back toward Sherlock, John’s breathing increased, his heart rate speeding a small increment, and his eyelashes fluttered without yet lifting. Sherlock rubbed his cheek, patting a bit, prepared to offer sharper stimulus if it was needed. John made a soft grunt, as if in effort or frustration, and croaked, “hunt dark moon.”

Fingers smoothing over John’s face, hands then cupping his cheeks, Sherlock said more sharply, “John, wake up!”

“Hunt dark moon here… remember hunt dark moon…” Mumbling hoarsely, John shook his head within the cradle of Sherlock’s hands, then his eyelids fluttered again, lifted, his eyes rolling sightlessly, pupils huge, before closing again. “Hunt… remember… dark moon…” Blending into a sleepy groan and then a soft surprised sound, John’s words stopped as his eyes popped open again, still dilated, but now focusing. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock let out a long breath and swallowed with a suddenly dry throat. “Are you alright?”

“Dunno…” John blinked a few more times rapidly, inhaling and exhaling deeply, his breath making a cloud of vapour that Sherlock could feel brush his face with soft warmth and moisture. “I think so… but, feels like there’s a weight… on m’chest…” Even if Sherlock might have missed his intention, John’s lips pulling into a crooked near-smile revealed that he was teasing.

“Idiot,” Sherlock rumbled, leaning down to rest his forehead against John’s chin, a rush of relief and the ridiculous urge to laugh bubbling up through him. 

“Is that what it’s like for you every time?” John asked with a humorous note to his voice, as one hand came up to rest upon the curve of Sherlock’s head, fingers combing into his hair. “Because, honestly, you could sell tickets.” 

“No, it’s bloody well _not_ ,” growled Sherlock, hearing and sensing the thread of John’s unease beneath the humour. “That was something else, altogether,” he added firmly. 

John shook his head slightly, chest moving with a brief, silent laugh, “Oh, it was that.” Clearing his throat, still petting Sherlock’s hair—something Sherlock wouldn’t have thought he would find so pleasant, actually—John asked more seriously, “Are _you_ alright?”

“Yes.” Lifting his head, though with an unexpected pang of regret for the loss of John’s fingers in his hair, Sherlock sat up, wincing at the ache in his thigh muscles and at the sticky mess between them. “I…” The strong feeling he should apologise warred with not only his basic nature, but the feeling that this had been something neither of them could really take ‘blame’ for.

“You didn’t know,” John surmised into Sherlock’s hesitation, his hands falling to Sherlock’s thighs almost automatically. “I think…” He moved his legs experimentally, grimacing slightly, but whether it was from some unknown ache or what, Sherlock didn’t know. “Actually, I think I’m going to need a bit before I _can_ think.”

“Can you make it home?” Easing off of him, Sherlock reached down to where he'd left his pants and trousers, using his underwear to at least make a rough job of cleaning them both off before stuffing the abused garment into his trouser pocket.

“Thanks… yeah,” John grunted as he lifted his hips to slide his pants and trousers back up. “I’m a little… heh… drained.”

Sherlock snorted, stepping into his shoes as he fastened his trousers, only then offering John a hand up. With a firm grip on Sherlock’s hand, John pulled only a bit as he stood, but then he tightened his hold when his balance wavered. A soft ‘woah’ escaped him. Stepping in and taking his arm, Sherlock murmured, “A bit of light-headedness is normal.”

“Yeah, well, I donated blood, didn’t I?” Sniggering softly, again apparently amused by his own humour, John nodded, taking another deep breath, responding as if Sherlock had spoken. “No, no, I’m alright. It’s evening out.”

“Come on, then.” Keeping a hand on John, Sherlock bent and snatched up his coat, flinging it over his arm and leading the way out of the park at what felt like a snail’s pace, but which was really only a normal walking pace. Glancing up at the sky, and keeping well aware of what was around them—he hadn’t liked being unconscious like that, even hidden by the trees and shrubs—he was soon reoriented with where and when they were. “We were out for almost two hours.”

“I didn’t care for it, either,” John agreed quietly, eyes sweeping the area around them, looking more alert. At the gate, he glanced back the way they had come, and then let Sherlock open the gate for both of them. 

“What is it?” Sherlock asked him as they moved on in the direction of Baker Street. 

John shook his head, frowning a bit. "Weird dreams, I guess," he said barely loud enough to be heard. "Let's just go."

Sherlock studied him surreptitiously, wondering what he was missing, but considering how strange he, himself felt, he could hardly blame John for being off-kilter, as well. They didn't speak any further on the way back to the flat, but despite the fact that they were both walking well enough, Sherlock didn't quite feel comfortable letting go of John's arm; however, Sherlock noted that John showed no inclination to be free, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some small fixes - 10/24/11  
> Updated 11/12/12


	17. John - Being Sensible

John felt exactly the sort of weakness one experiences after losing blood; although he had no idea how much Sherlock had taken, he could tell it hadn't been a dangerous amount, because he knew what _that_ felt like. Along with the almost-shaky feeling was a lingering undercurrent of that warm afterglow from really good sex, even though the foreplay had been about twenty times longer than the actual _sex_. Endorphins, John thought idly as they reached Baker Street and climbed up the stairs at a much slower pace than usual. Even Sherlock was moving a little cautiously, perhaps he was tired and sore, as well. Sore. 

In the act of toeing off his muddied trainers just inside the flat door, John paused, his brain kicking over into medical mode and leaving him frowning in concern with one shoe still on. When Sherlock looked at him questioningly, he couldn't _not_ ask, "Are you alright? I mean... I didn't... hurt you, did I?"

For a few seconds Sherlock looked at him in something like confused blankness, then his features pulled into something like mild surprise and he shook his head. Relieved, John nodded and returned his attention to nudging off the other trainer without losing his balance. Sherlock spoke in a softer tone as John conquered the second shoe without allowing gravity to tip him onto the floor. "I was a bit concerned about the same thing, actually." John lifted his gaze to find Sherlock's pale eyes studying him as he asked in his turn, "You aren't damaged?"

"I... no." John shook his head. He was a little sore, but it was negligible. 

"You may shower first, John," Sherlock told him as he turned away to toss his overcoat over onto his favourite chair, ridding himself of his own rather abused shoes with two easy kicks of his feet. John nodded, knowing that, in his way, Sherlock was being solicitous, and that the last was as much a suggestion as an offer. 

He turned and ambled through the kitchen toward the loo, the idea of a nice long shower sounding better every moment and he could think of nothing more to say right then.

"John?" The word came from not far behind him and John turned to see Sherlock, his shirt untucked again and half unbuttoned. It was harder than John would've thought to lift his eyes from that smooth, pale chest and bit of sternum, but he did, and saw that Sherlock had a hint of a knowing look about him. However, all he said was, "Leave the door open a crack, just in case you have a delayed reaction or anything of that sort."

"Right." With a nod, agreeing that it was a sensible notion, John turned and went onward, pulling off his jumper before reaching the door, and he was down to skin in minutes after starting the water running. 

The hot water stung in a few raw spots he hadn’t realised he had, but after a moment or two it was simply bliss. He washed, finding leaves and actual _dirt_ in his hair, which rather amused him when he thought about how it had got there. For a little while after he was thoroughly clean, he just stood under the spray, letting the hot water pour over him like one long, continuous soothing touch. 

John was nearly asleep on his feet there under the water when he heard Sherlock murmur his name very faintly with an edge of querying concern. “I’m alright,” he said aloud, coming out from under the stream and swiping the water and his hair back with one hand. “Sorry to take so long.”

Silence. 

John turned off the water and opened the shower curtain, peering out just as the bathroom door was opening. Sherlock pushed the door closed behind him as he spoke. “I thought I heard you say something.”

“I could’ve sworn I heard _you_ ,” John countered with a puzzled frown. Sherlock shook his head, brows drawing together and John shook his head, too. “Maybe I was… closer to dozing off than I thought.”

“Obviously time to get out, then.” Grabbing a towel, Sherlock pushed the curtain aside and held the towel out to John. 

“Past time, I think,” John agreed, taking the towel and rubbing his hair mostly dry before pausing and only then realising that Sherlock wore only his trousers and had sat himself on the closed lid of the toilet, watching John dry off. One small part of him wanted to clear his throat and say something along the lines of ‘excuse me, what’re you doing?’ just because, but another part of him was admiring the elegant, lean lines of Sherlock’s body and amazed that he could look as good as he did wearing rumpled, grass-stained trousers and nothing else. Perhaps something of his confusion showed on his face, because one of Sherlock’s dark brows arched higher and he gave John an enquiring expression. That was when the rest of John’s confused brain figured out that he really didn’t mind the man being there, nor was he ashamed of his own body—it wasn’t Sherlock’s kind of gorgeous and it was a bit scarred and worse for wear, but it wasn’t all that bad—so he gave a little shrug and partial shake of his head before continuing to dry off.

Pale eyes watching John as interestedly as if he were a show on the telly, Sherlock’s voice was quiet. “Don’t forget to have some juice and biscuits or something.” 

Smiling a little, John wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped out of the tub. “I have donated blood before.” 

“Not like this.” Rising, Sherlock went to stand in front of John, cool fingers touching his jaw to turn his head aside. John didn’t resist, because he knew Sherlock wanted to see how bad the bite was. “Hold still,” the taller man murmured as he bent his head. 

“What are… ohh…” John started to ask, but Sherlock’s hair brushing his cheek and his tongue on the skin of John’s neck derailed his question, bringing only a soft, wordless sound of surprise. The touch of Sherlock’s tongue felt almost cool after the heat of the water he’d been standing under and the silky slide of it sent chills all down John’s neck and shoulders. Sherlock then pressed his tongue firmly against the tender spot where he had bitten John earlier. “You said something,” John whispered hoarsely, “about natural coagulant.”

Sherlock made a sound of agreement. The smell of him was so close, his normal scent already one John enjoyed, but it was mixed with grass and earth and sex; John’s body announced very clearly to him that it approved, heartily. He was too tired and relaxed to actually get hard, but he could feel himself swell, just a little, a token attempt. One more lick, then two, and Sherlock’s tongue left John’s skin, but he inhaled audibly, the light brush of his lips and nose running along John’s skin. “Always enjoyed this,” Sherlock breathed against the long line of John’s upper trapezius, “the scent of you fresh out of the shower.”

“Have you?” Sounding doubtful, John was fairly certain he’d remember being positively _inhaled_ like that. 

“When you make your last cup of tea for the night.” Lips brushing the line of his left clavicle, voice still just a breath of a whisper, Sherlock’s hair caressed John’s cheek and chin as he tilted his head to let his tongue-tip rest lightly in the hollow of John’s suprasternal notch. “You always offer to make me one if I’m amenable.” Sherlock’s lips and breath became a soft series of feathery touches along John’s right clavicle. “Have you never wondered why I’m so much more often amenable then?”

“So I’ll bring it to you…” A hint of a smile, amusement and fascination, pulled at John’s mouth. “Come close and hand it to you.”

Nodding, Sherlock made a soft agreeing sound, raising more goosebumps along John’s skin. “You bring me tea and a cloud of freshly-washed _John_.” His soft chuckle was like a touch, too, and John had no idea when he’d closed his eyes. 

“Anyone could just bring you tea,” whispered John, words springing right from his brain and out of his mouth, playful from sleepiness and a slow, lazy arousal that was infusing his whole body. Although he wanted to turn his head and catch Sherlock’s mouth with his own, he was enjoying this, wondering where it would lead and what it meant.

Sherlock chuckled again, dropping his head further and pressing his lips, still so light, barely enough to be felt, to the very centre of John’s bullet-wound scar. “This… this brought _you_ to me,” rumbled Sherlock against the irregular, shallow concavity at the centre of a roughly-oval area of marred flesh, the finer scars from lines of sutures almost forming a subtle, irregular starburst pattern. 

“I suppose it did, in a way,” John agreed, opening his eyes as Sherlock’s touch left his skin, only to find him standing upright again, eyes a bit dilated and just the very tips of his fangs showing more than ‘usual’. “Your secret’s out now, though.”

“So it is,” agreed Sherlock, lips pulling a little off-centre, as if he might smile but was resisting yet. 

“I want to kiss you again.” The words were out of John’s mouth without any consideration or thought, barely loud enough to qualify as a whisper.

“How coincidental,” murmured Sherlock before lowering his head again, this time settling his lips against John’s, still touching him nowhere else. 

A soft echo of the connection flared up between them, feeling like a tendril of honeyed, languid heat spreading from the centre of John’s being. Winding along his nerves, it made him even more relaxed, bringing a soft, deep-throated moan rising up from inside him to vibrate through their mouths and tongues and lips. At the sound, Sherlock deepened the kiss, a low, husky moan of his own answering John’s, and still, _still_ he had not yet put a single finger upon John’s body. 

When Sherlock finally lifted his head, his pupils were wider, but still within ‘normal’ range, although his fangs were slightly more pronounced—nothing ‘normal’ there. “You must go up and get some sleep, John.”

“Must I?” John sighed, struggling to force his eyelids up again as he brought one hand to Sherlock’s waist. His wrist was caught, held, and Sherlock kept him from moving further. The gentle presence of their connection strengthened, that languid, sweet sensation now resonating from John to Sherlock and back, he could feel it at the edges of his senses.

“Yes.” Their eyes met and Sherlock moved John’s hand away from his skin. “We both need to recover before… trying anything else.”

Letting out a sigh of disappointment, John nodded. “We really ought to be sensible about this.”

“Unfortunately,” Sherlock confirmed, releasing John’s wrist, but sliding his fingers up John’s forearm to do it, leaving a ghostly sensation of his touch trembling in the nerve-endings. “Whatever this is, we’re still being affected.”

“It’s very difficult to mind,” John told him truthfully, but forced himself to step back, clenching his hand because it was as if he could still feel Sherlock’s skin on his fingers. 

“Juice and biscuits,” Sherlock said, stepping back to allow John a clear path to the door. “Then bed.”

“You’ll rest, too?” Giving him a knowing look, John added, “You were knocked out by this… whatever it was, too.” 

With a quirk of one corner of his mouth, Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”

“Alright,” John agreed. He didn’t like it, didn’t want to, but he left the room, closing the door behind him. In the kitchen he poured himself a glass of grape juice and pulled out a handful of digestives, taking them up to his room. 

The stairs seemed to take forever to climb and John’s body kept trying to convince him to go back down, to argue the point, to touch and taste all that pale, smooth skin. Grumbling under his breath, John drank the juice and ate the biscuits, donned a pair of pyjama bottoms, and got into bed, despite not having brushed his teeth. He could hear the water running downstairs, his imagination happy to conjure up images of a wet, nude Sherlock. It wasn’t like he hadn’t run _that_ fantasy through his brain a few dozen times before. 

Shaking his head at himself, turning off the bedside lamp and settling in under the covers, John did his best to try and go to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some small fixes - 10/24/11  
> Update 11/12/12


	18. Sherlock - Frustration And Surrender

Sherlock showered for easily as long as John had done, not only ridding his body of dirt and sweat and the aftermath of sex, but trying to rid himself of the overwhelming desires coursing through him; he still wanted to touch and taste John, wanted to smell his scent close by, wanted to fuck him and be fucked by him, wanted to hear his voice, want, want, _want_! It was entirely too much. Though he had been attracted to John prior to this, had already labelled John as ‘his’ deep down in his unthinking sub-conscious, this was more than possessive, this was bordering on obsessive.

No, he argued with himself, growling under his breath as he shut off the water—it was growing cooler anyway—and caught up his towel from the rack with an irritated flick of the wrist. No, this _was_ obsessive. He wasn’t quite himself yet, though he was feeling a gradual increase in energy and focus, but he had said earlier and still thought now that he knew what this was. If only he could remember. It was clearly an old memory; not deleted, but something rarely accessed or perhaps even something he hadn’t intended to keep.

Drying off and grooming himself properly, something made Sherlock hesitate at the threshold of his room, listening and extending his senses. The usual sounds of the building, the neighbours, traffic—he tuned them out automatically—and there, above him, the slight creak of John’s bed as he rolled over. Then again, before Sherlock even reached the middle of his bedroom. As drowsy as he had been, John should already have dropped off to sleep; Sherlock knew his flatmate’s patterns well. 

Donning his oldest, most comfortable pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt so thin with age that it was very nearly like densely-woven cheesecloth, Sherlock padded out to the kitchen for a glass of water. He wasn’t particularly thirsty, but he didn’t care to get into bed just yet. Ambling around to check the doors, to put his filthy clothing into a bag for the dry-cleaner’s, he then retrieved his laptop and mobile. Finally, he made himself go into his room and close the door; every time he’d come near the stairs leading up to John’s room, he had slowed or paused altogether, but had then caught himself and continued onward. 

He would not allow whatever this _thing_ was between them to dictate his actions. If nothing else, he had learned—and _would_ maintain—self-control. Upon the heels of this thought, his mind wandered almost obscenely eagerly to memories of earlier, of hunting John, of wrestling and rutting on the grass, as if to call him a liar. Of course, he had indulged his libido before, had enjoyed impromptu sex with lovers in unusual locations, but this… _thing_ … with John had been something else, something primal and immediate. Satisfying, he realised as he paced from the door to the heavily-curtained window, stopping to tilt his head and listen to John roll over yet again. Yes, the hunt and the sex had been _very_ satisfying, if far too brief. What, exactly, _had_ happened there at the end? 

Stretching out on his bed, frowning at the ceiling as he heard John shift in his bed, get up, move around, and then lie down again, Sherlock tried to concentrate and address the thing methodically. He was certain the overload, or whatever it was, had been directly related to the connection between them that John had initiated; in fact, considering how it felt when they’d kissed after John’s shower, Sherlock was willing to hypothesise that the alarming burst of sensation had left that connection still active. Stronger, as well, if he wasn’t mistaken. 

If he concentrated, he could still feel it… lurking just beyond his normal senses. An echo or… the faintest imitation of that sense of presence he had felt when John touched him without physically contacting his body. John was upstairs in his bed, yet Sherlock only had to focus upon him and— _there!_

Gasping at the suddenness of it, Sherlock was surrounded with that presence again; John’s scent, the unique and indefinable feeling that permeated a room when John was in it, just as vivid as it had been when John was sitting right across from him. Sherlock moaned at the rush of arousal that shot through him along with that sense of presence and, just as he’d quickly learned to pull on that connection during their chase, he now tested it with a gentler ‘touch’, again imagining it like a thin strand of contact. Instead of yanking, he imagined a fingertip’s stroke, a caress. 

He didn’t even realise his eyes had closed until they popped open at the sound of sudden footsteps above, John getting out of bed, nearly stumbling down the stairs. Had John felt it, too? Fascinating! 

Sherlock listened to John’s footfalls—more audible than usual, even barefoot—travelling through the sitting room and into the kitchen, and he awaited the knock on his door with what he was almost embarrassed to admit was blatant eagerness. However, John’s path stopped in the kitchen, the fridge opened and closed after a few moment’s pause, cupboard door softly bumping next, and then water running. John must have been getting some water, too. His movements thereafter were silent, even Sherlock couldn’t hear him, and yet he was increasingly certain that John was either outside his door or focused upon it from the kitchen doorway. The sense of him, humming and vibrating intangibly along that connection, was maddeningly clear and immediate. Sherlock wanted to pull on that tether that had formed between them, to bring John to him right then, but his pride wouldn’t allow it; he had told John they must wait, that they were still being affected—how ungodly true _that_ was!—and how could he bear to have less self-control than a mere _human_? Well… half-human… the point was the same. 

When he heard the first soft treads going back up the stairs, Sherlock was astonished, as well as irrationally irritated; John was going back upstairs? Didn’t he feel this? With more pique than anything else, he focused on that awareness of John, the link between them, and did his best to send his arousal along it; he refused to feel this ridiculous amount of blatant lust alone. 

John’s progress up the stairs halted and Sherlock felt a mixture of almost childish satisfaction and self-derision, but then John’s steps—certainly not silent now—came back down the four treads he’d gained, through the sitting room, the kitchen, and then into the hall leading to Sherlock’s bedroom and the bathroom. He halted just outside Sherlock’s door.

“Sherlock?” His voice slightly hoarse, John cleared his throat and then said in a low voice, "I don't know if you're... experimenting... or what, but if you're... _doing_ something with this thing between us..." Another clearing of his throat. "Well, just please stop."

Watching the door, Sherlock considered saying nothing, considered toying with that connection again—how fascinating this was, really, despite the discomfort and confusion—and he considered flinging the door open and just dragging John inside. He could smell him from where he was stretched out on his bed, hard and nearly thrumming with hunger that had nothing to do with blood. 

"God, I'm _not_ going in there to check," John said after a few seconds more, his already low voice growing rougher at the edges. "I'd not be able to make myself leave again. You... I don't know if you're feeling the same thing, but... Jesus, for all I know you're sound asleep and it's just me... but it feels like..." Sighing heavily, he didn't finish his sentence, but Sherlock heard the soft slide of something on his bedroom door. Immediately, he knew John's hand had been resting upon it, that he had slowly lowered it, skin barely touching the panels as he did so.

Without particularly deciding to do it, acting on instinct, Sherlock was up and at the door in a second. Opening it, he caught John just then taking a step away, though hearing the door open had halted him. His voice deepening and his fangs already extending in spite of himself, he wanted to say 'John, wait' or 'John, I'm sorry' or... well, it didn't matter, because all Sherlock managed to say was simply, "John."

Looking at him, eyes wide, pupils dilated, breathing a little fast, heart a little faster, and smelling of clean skin, hair, body wash, and arousal, John swallowed heavily, parted his lips and said... absolutely nothing. Instead, he took one large step, reached up and dug both hands into Sherlock's still-damp hair, dragging him down into an immediately intense kiss. 

Sherlock could have evaded, could have resisted, could have kept his lips closed, but that would have required more willpower than he could possibly manage right then; instead he met John's lips and tongue with his own, moaning deeply at how bloody much he wanted it. His arms went around John, pulling him closer, holding on tightly, devouring his mouth, his tongue, and he was faintly aware of the sound of cloth ripping. Possibly John's shirt, possibly his own; he could not have cared less. The moment their lips had met, the connection that had never fully faded exploded back into being, intensifying every slide of tongue, each gliding brush of lips, everything.

Shuffling them backward into his room, Sherlock could not stand to relinquish John's mouth; he was lost in the taste of him, the heat of his body pressed all along Sherlock's, blissfully surrounded in his scent and wanting more. More. And more still than that. It was as if the relatively short time apart trying to deny it had only made the attraction stronger; it was also clear that his toying with their connection had backfired enormously. 

Tearing his mouth away with a sound like desperation, John gasped, "I want you as badly as I did earlier!" Licking into Sherlock's mouth, following his last few steps around the things on his floor without missing a beat, John only released his mouth when Sherlock's legs bumped into the edge of his bed. "Tell me you want it, too."

Nodding, Sherlock almost growled, "It's all I can bloody well think about!"

"God, yes," John agreed hoarsely, nuzzling in to lick and then bite Sherlock’s neck, making him groan at the spike of reaction that arrowed through him. Sucking, no doubt enough to leave a mark, sending delicious chills along Sherlock’s skin and nerves, John then whispered against his skin, “Tell me you have some bloody lube down here, at least!” 

Gasping at the feel of John’s teeth again, sharper this time, Sherlock’s fingers caught in the thin fabric separating him from John’s skin, resisting the urge to just tear it away. He tilted his head back, inviting more, one hand roaming down to John’s arse, the thin cotton of his boxer-briefs no barrier between the heat of John’s flesh and Sherlock’s splayed fingers. “I have everything,” he replied, making a low, pleased sound to feel John’s cock already hard against him. When he shifted his thigh into that line of firm heat, John gave a soft sound in the back of his throat, almost a moan, not quite a whimper. This garnered Sherlock another lovebite a little higher up, and John’s fingers sliding down into his pyjama bottoms, hot, hot on the skin of his left buttock. He wondered idly, if he looked right that minute, would there be a hand-shaped mark there? 

“Fuck… never had enough of this before…” John crooned into the skin he’d surely just marked; squeezing Sherlock’s arse as he quite willingly rocked his hips to rut against Sherlock’s thigh. “You smell so… don’t know whether I want to taste every inch of you… or just fuck you for a few hours… days…” With each pause, John moved further up Sherlock’s neck, sucking kisses and nips, till he caught Sherlock’s lower lip in his teeth. 

“Johnnn…” Moaned Sherlock at the man’s words, the way he was inundating Sherlock’s senses, the way it seemed his presence was bleeding into Sherlock’s own, just as it had earlier. More, it wasn’t just his perspective, it really _was_ stronger, fuller. “Do you… can you feel it?”

“Jesus, Sherlock, I can almost _taste_ it,” John growled, tugging on the front of Sherlock’s pyjamas. “I need your skin… I am going to fucking explode from wanting your skin against mine.”

“No, the… this thing you started between us,” Sherlock tried to speak clearly, but the moment John had mentioned skin on skin, he had to have it, too. All of his senses were so full of John that the lack of his skin suddenly seemed like a huge gaping silence in an otherwise gorgeous symphony of sensations. He nodded hurriedly, pulling away long enough to almost shove his pyjamas off.

“Wait…” Already about to pull his own undershirt up, John paused, frowning. “That… we’re not… this won’t be like that last time will it? That was about your… the drinking my blood… wasn’t it?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not enough data. It did seem to catalyse the reaction, but I don’t _know_.”

Licking his lips, John appeared to be trying very hard to think clearly. Sherlock’s gaze fell to the prominent outline of John’s fully-erect cock and his mouth, quite literally, watered. He stepped out of his pyjama bottoms and nearly ripped his t-shirt in yanking it off. 

John’s eyes travelled down Sherlock’s body, lips parting as if he would speak, then he just shook his head and dragged his own underwear down. Crossing his arms, he caught the hem of his undershirt and drew it up and off over his head, dropping it immediately. “Fine, didn’t kill us the last time,” he growled, reaching out and simply giving Sherlock a semi-playful shove—certainly hard enough to tip his balance, but he could have resisted if he’d wished—and Sherlock let himself fall back on the bed with a bounce.

Unable to stop himself, even as he was rolling to the side to get the lube out of the nightstand drawer, Sherlock posited, “It could just as easily be stronger this time.”

John plucked the squeeze-bottle out of Sherlock’s fingers, one knee already on the edge of the bed, and paused, looking torn between urgent lust and frustration. “Hell of a time to bring that idea up.”

“It could just as easily not happen at all,” Sherlock countered with a one-shoulder shrug, the corner of his mouth quirking up. His gaze fell to John’s cock, ruddy with heat and blood, a little trickle of pre-ejaculate just then running slowly down the underside. 

With a low sound that, again, sounded halfway to a growl, John flipped open the cap on the lube and squirted some into his palm, then thumping it down on the nightstand without looking away from Sherlock. “Fine, then. Either we fuck or I’m wanking off right here; your choice.” He curled his first two fingers into the small pool of clear liquid in his palm and scissored them as he extended them again, the lube glistening on his fingers in the light from the bedside lamp; there was no mistaking the implication, no way that it didn’t make Sherlock squirm a little inside. With a slight shift of his expression that consisted of his eyelids lowering and a crooked curve to his lips, John exhaled softly; at the same moment, Sherlock felt a warm, tingling _surge_ shimmer through him, all his nerve-endings alert for a moment in their turn.

“Fuck!” He gasped, head falling back into the pillows. Had that been what John felt when he’d been toying with the connection between them earlier? “I don’t know if I hate that or love it,” Sherlock breathed in a fairly close approximation to a growl, himself. 

“I don’t know exactly, either,” John said, applying his palm and the majority of the lube in a slow, deliberate way to his cock, his voice growing softer and sultrier. “But I sort of wonder how it’ll feel to do it when I’m fucking you.” 

A surge of pure, molten lust sizzled through Sherlock, not only at the idea, but at how John had offered the words, at the expression on his face; now his own cock was so hard it ached. Not caring that he was nearly panting, Sherlock ran a hand slowly down his chest and belly, cupping his balls and tugging them away from his body. He was as aroused as if they’d been indulging in thorough foreplay for an hour. “Good question,” he rumbled, letting his legs fall open further before lifting one knee. “Let’s find out.”

John took that as the agreement it was and didn’t waste any more time with further questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update 11/13/12


	19. John – Dreaming, Phone Calls, And Something More

Shadowy images fluttered with sound and strange bursts of light, flickering over and through remembered words and faces. John had a vague awareness he was dreaming, but at the same time he was _in_ the dream. 

_In Sherlock’s bed, the pale yellow light from the bedside lamp turns his skin a faintly golden shade of cream as he arches into John’s touch, growling hungrily, ‘more!’ as John finger-fucks him into readiness. Neck a pale curve of irresistible skin that John’s already marked, Sherlock presses his head back into the pillow. Then things skip, John’s cock is buried deep inside Sherlock and long, lean thighs grip his sides hard enough that he knows the man could break his ribs if he wanted; somehow, this doesn’t do anything but make it more exciting that he doesn’t._

_John imagines their connection in his mind’s eye like a shimmering gold and green haze between them; the further apart they are, the more it narrows down, until it’s like a fine thread. But now, here, with John rocking into Sherlock in long, slow, lush pushes, he imagines wrapping it around them both, imagines it brushing their skin like one continuous ephemeral caress. Each time he plunges into the tight sheath of his lover’s body, John pulls with that other sense that words can’t adequately convey, gasping at the way it feels, as if that sweet, liquid pleasure he gets when he’s aroused is infusing his skin and flesh and bones. It’s different than the wild explosion of too much in the park; instead of one big burst, it’s measured doses, poured along their nerves each time John flexes his hips along with that other grasp on their connection._

_Mouths meet, tongues duel, teeth nip and lips suck, hands and fingers everywhere they can reach, and each steady rock of John’s body ripples another wave of pleasure through them both. They’re mumbling, cursing, groaning, occasionally crying out at a particularly good spike of sensation, both of them feeling, feeling, and feeling more._

_Then Sherlock growls a harsh epithet and starts reciprocating, demanding John go faster, gathering a portion of that glimmering not-quite-nothingness that touches them both and tugging in between John’s gentler pulls. So John slides into Sherlock with a warm ripple of honeyed pleasure along their connection and, as he then withdraws, Sherlock uses it to bring the sensations tight in a sharper, harder swell of sensual energy. Both are good, oh, so bloody good, but different. Where one or the other would be amazing, alternating them is incredible, and it grows, and grows, until John can’t help but move faster and harder in response, while Sherlock is bucking up into him, greedily demanding more and more still._

_They’re shouting and groaning harshly, moving faster and faster, the connection shifting and pulling in rhythm until there’s nowhere to go but to orgasm. Sherlock turns his head away at the last instant, fangs fully extended, pupils gone impossibly dark and huge before he squeezes his eyes shut; John knows it’s to avoid biting him, but can’t say a thing as he comes so hard and fully that it’s as if he’s having both their orgasms at the same time. For one impossibly long moment he can feel every inch of Sherlock’s body, as if every bit of his skin is touching every bit of John’s; his mind’s eye seeing that shimmering gold and green shrink tight around them, **into** them, but then the moment’s gone and the sliver of strange clarity fades into hot, sweaty, breathless afterglow. _

_It’s the best dream John can ever remember having, certainly the wettest wet dream ever, and things shatter and reform, time doing strange dances in the realm of dreams that it can’t in reality. Next it’s later, and they’re in the shower, covered in lather, surrounded by steam, and kissing and touching, stroking, caressing, learning every slope and curve and indentation. Sherlock whispers near John’s ear, ‘I want to taste you again, John,’ and with his lips against John’s throat and his half-hard cock sliding teasingly along the cleft of John’s arse, how he wants to taste him is fairly obvious. ‘Could be dangerous,’ he taunts with the edge of laughter in his tone, the echo back to that text sent while John spoke with Mycroft making John chuckle._

_John finds that he wants it, dangerous or not, curious whether it will overload him like before, but in no way afraid. Sherlock is pulling, drawing him closer in some indefinable way that feels like gravity’s stood them on their ears and Sherlock is what everything in John is falling toward. This isn’t their connection—though he can still feel it beneath everything else—it’s something Sherlock does as a vampire, creating a sensation of willingness, but John’s already willing, so it’s just like being a bit tipsy. Of course, they’re both a little fuck-drunk, endorphins practically fizzing in their veins from before, so Sherlock’s fangs sink in and John gasps at the strange surge of tingling sweetness, like a tiny series of orgasms moving through him. He reaches up, tangling his fingers in Sherlock’s wet hair, feeling long arms wind around him, one hand against his heart, the other cupping his cock and balls. Impossible or not, it’s as if he can feel the blood surge out of him and into Sherlock’s mouth, hearing the soft sound of his swallows and the low rumble of his voice as he hums in satisfaction._

_Sherlock’s cock is a rigid line against his backside, John’s own pressing into the snug cradle of Sherlock’s hand, and the sweet pleasure tickles and tingles through his veins, hot and cold somehow at the same time. He doesn’t come, but he probably would have if they hadn’t already had it off like champions not long before, and he’s moaning at the delicious sensations even as Sherlock’s fangs slide out of his flesh and his tongue presses the dual pinpoints of aching strangeness until they fade._

_Though he sort of knows that something more happens in the shower, his dream skips and flows past it, to the tangle of their limbs in the bed, to murmurs between them where they exchange their observances of how it felt and what it still feels like. He expects to be sent off to his bed, to be dismissed or at least released to his own devices, but it never happens, and it’s just a dream, but John can’t pretend he isn’t pleased; Sherlock, absolutely unsurprisingly, is fairly radiating smug satisfaction. John vaguely recalls thinking that, if the man were a cat, he’d be purring loud enough to rattle the windows, but the dream moves away, through other thoughts and snippets of sound, down into darker realms where consciousness—even that of dream states—can’t follow._

A sound John knew he should recognise pulled him toward consciousness. He was warm and comfortable, the bedding heavy over him, face half-buried in his pillow, drifting, not quite awake and yet aware that he wasn’t really asleep. Must be at his Nan’s, that goose-down duvet weighed a tonne, but nothing was warmer in those frigidly-damp northern winters. The sound was keeping him from going back to sleep, cozy beneath the weight, rather than uncomfortable, and he resisted waking further.

His duvet moved, breathing a growling huff into the hair at the back of John’s head before rumbling, “Phone.”

Stretching his arm out, John found the nightstand, then felt something tip over as his fingers bumped it, rolling off the edge and thumping onto the floor. A roughly-circular groping pattern brought him the familiar feel of a mobile and he picked it up, flipping it open and mumbling hoarsely, “H’lo?”

“Who’s this?” Asked a voice that John knew. Yes, he knew that voice. It would come to him in a minute.

“Lestrade?” he hazarded, struggling to put two thoughts together.

“John? Is Sherlock alright?” Lestrade paused, voice shifting to something like cautious suspicion, then asked, “For that matter, are _you_ alright? You sound like hell.”

While Lestrade was speaking over the mobile into John’s ear, what John had taken in his initially-groggy state to be a duvet draped over him moved. Breath stirred his hair again—ah, yes, couldn’t very well have been the _duvet_ saying ‘phone’ a few moments ago, could it have?—and then someone was nuzzling into the curve where his neck and shoulder met. Oh. Even as the jumbled pieces were assembling themselves in John’s memory, Sherlock whispered, “It was all the shouting… mmm… rough on the voice.” 

Clearing his throat, remembering some of that shouting the night before—specifically, the reasons for it—John tried again, “Sorry, I was asleep.” 

“Well, you still sound like hell. If you’re sleeping, why’s he making you answer his phone? Thought he only did that when he was up to his elbows in something disgusting.” 

“Yeah, long story. Let me get him,” John offered, distracted by the slow rub of the leg thrown over him, the arm around his ribs and the hand that ran up his belly to his chest. “Oi,” he grunted as Sherlock swirled the pad of his thumb over John’s nipple. “S’Lestrade.” 

Leaving off teasing John’s nipple, Sherlock slipped the mobile out of his hand and spoke in a low, slightly less hoarse, voice. “Good afternoon, Lestrade, I trust you have something interesting to tell me?” 

As slow-witted as John felt, he thought it particularly cruel of Fate that Sherlock should sound entirely possessed of his faculties. Instead of rolling away or even getting out of bed, Sherlock rested his head against John’s as he spoke to the Detective Inspector.

Meanwhile, not listening to Lestrade, though he could have done if he’d wished, John was coming closer to being fully conscious and _functioning_ ; at the same time, he was also coming closer to the realisation that his dreams were not precisely dreams. They had done those things, experienced that incredible rush of sensations, and Sherlock had bitten him again without both of them exploding like popped fuses. 

“I can and will be there, yes.” Sherlock flipped his phone closed and tossed it over the side of the bed onto the floor before sliding his arm around John again. Exhaling a long-suffering sigh into the hair just above John’s ear, he said smoothly, “I’ve good news and bad news.”

“Oh?” It took John a moment or two to process that Sherlock was… yes… rubbing his cheek against John’s head. The feline analogy popped back into his mind and he realised that he was smiling with affectionate amusement. Who knew a ‘morning after’ Sherlock would be this physically affectionate?

“Good news is Lestrade’s arranged an interview with the man who confessed to the killing.” Pausing, his leg already hooked over John’s uppermost thigh, Sherlock then tucked his foot in between John’s shins; thus, effectively wrapping that one leg almost entirely around John’s uppermost leg. “Bad news is we have to get out of bed.”

Chuckling, John trapped Sherlock’s roaming hand at his sternum, keeping it from going any lower. “Probably getting dressed would be called for, too, hm? Think Lestrade might object to us showing up starkers.”

“It seems inevitable,” rumbled the consulting detective. “However,” Sherlock added in a low, smooth drawl, “speaking of Lestrade; once we’re there, you may keep your hands off.”

John’s brows rose and he was torn between wanting to challenge the implications of those words and feeling a surprising surge of smugness at the possessiveness inherent in them. “Only if I get to tell you to keep your hands to yourself, as well.”

Snorting, Sherlock moved faster than John had been prepared for; suddenly looming half over a John pressed flat onto his back in the bed. Still with one leg over John, resting on one elbow, Sherlock’s other hand loosely encircled John’s throat. “Do you genuinely feel capable of debating the parameters of a relationship right now, John?”

“No debate needed,” John replied, not intimidated by those long, cool fingers resting over his steady pulse, nor the lean palm cupping his adam’s apple, nor the thumb pressed under the angle of his jaw. “Anything you ask me to do or not do ought to be the same for you.” He shrugged as best he could in that position, bringing his hand under Sherlock’s partially-raised upper body and around, running a possessive hand down the sweet curve of his lower back and then resting it over the swell of Sherlock’s buttock. “Simple.”

Eyes narrowing, Sherlock tilted his head, studying John as if he were on a slide beneath his microscope. “Simple. Is that what you want, John?”

“You’re the one issuing cautions.” It wasn’t his imagination that the fingertips over his jugular moved slightly, almost as if resisting a more obviously-caressing touch.

“I’m the one who must feed regularly,” pointed out Sherlock in a hard tone. “That requires a bit more than _touching_.” 

“Feed from me, then.” Partially shrugging again, he splayed his fingers over the surprisingly lush backside of his vampire lover. “Again, simple.”

Not immediately speaking, Sherlock studied John more closely, eyes flitting over his face, thoughts clearly whirring behind them, and John simply lifted his brows as he waited. “You mean that,” accused Sherlock softly after almost a whole minute.

“I didn’t mind it at all the second time,” John said, not trying to hide a bit of a smirk before lifting one shoulder. “First time wasn’t… well, _bad_ … just a bit over the top. Too much.”

“You don’t understand what you’re offering,” Sherlock told him flatly, starting to move off him and away, but John caught his wrist, pulling against his resistance.

“Then you explain it to me.” John knew Sherlock _let_ him pull that deceptively-fragile seeming wrist to his lips and kiss it softly. “Later, if you’d rather. I know the case needs your attention right now.”

Again John was the recipient of a long, thoughtful stare. Eventually, Sherlock asked in a voice that was barely a breath of sound, “Why?”

Lightly running his tongue tip along the tendon in Sherlock’s wrist, John lifted both brows and grinned wickedly. “Don’t suppose you’ve forgotten last night.” 

His eyelids lowering a bit, Sherlock’s lips parted slightly, his fingers curled but didn’t quite form a fist, though he didn’t pull away from John’s grasp. All he did was shake his wildly rumpled dark head the tiniest increment and swallow, darkening gaze falling to John’s lips.

“There was something here, before this new thing sprang up between us,” John told him, wishing he could put it more eloquently. “Has been almost since we first met. I don’t tend to shoot cabbies as a rule, certainly not on a whim, but I didn’t hesitate that night, had no need to think or decide. I think some part of me knew it, even if it wasn’t consciously, and it’s still there.”

Sherlock’s expression slid into something smooth and deliberately blank; John had seen him do it many times for various reasons. After a shorter pause, he nodded slowly and pulled his wrist aside, John’s fingers still wrapped around it, to lean down and press his lips to John’s. The kiss was gentler than John expected and included just the merest soft brush of Sherlock’s tongue against John’s before he lifted his head just enough to say, “Yes,” against John’s mouth. 

Slipping free without any hindrance from John, Sherlock was off the bed and out of the room; moments later, the faint groan and shwoosh of the water in the pipes presaged the sound of the shower running. John lingered there in the bed, a soft little smile curving his lips, because he’d caught the slightly-embarrassed pleasure in Sherlock’s expression and the warmth in his gaze slipping out from behind the blankness before he’d turned fully away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some small edits 10/24/11  
> Update 11/13/12


	20. Sherlock - AttemptingTo Order Disorderly Thoughts

Another cab ride and this time Sherlock was silent, as was John. Although John’s silence seemed to form a warm pocket of calm at his end of the backseat, Sherlock’s was a thoughtful silence, planning for the interview to come at the same time as musing on the fact that he might actually have achieved the very thing he had been contemplating the last time he and John had been in a cab together. To his unexpectedly deep satisfaction, it appeared—unless he discovered some grave flaw—that he might very well get to ‘have his cake and eat it, too’ as he’d wanted. 

John knew what Sherlock was and was not only staying anyway, but, along with hiding his being something more than human, he had been hiding a far deeper attraction to Sherlock than the clues had indicated. In the course of a few days the two of them had gone from friends and colleagues to potentially having to try to kill one another to lovers. Well, why not? Nothing else had been ‘normal’ or ‘ordinary’ between them since the moment they’d met. It certainly wasn’t ordinary now, either. 

Complicating his thinking—both lines of thought, in fact—was the fact that he was resisting a subtle, but pervasive urge, to be near John. To touch him, taste him, and more. That afternoon, after sleeping off a marvellously exhausting night and early morning, Sherlock would have happily lazed in bed the whole rest of the day and on into the night again. Highly unlike him when sober, although he had sometimes been very tactilely-focused when using, but it had usually been upon sensations, in general, rather than any one _person_. 

Although he might scoff at it, might sternly control the urge itself, he was certain it was a side-effect of the bond that now lay between them; even so, his sneering at and lecturing himself didn’t alter the fact that he had been acting—for lack of a more dignified metaphor—like a giant cat with a catnip-mouse. Only he had become alarmingly fond of this particular ‘catnip-mouse’ in an even _more_ alarmingly short span of time. If he didn’t pay constant attention, he would find himself on the verge of moving closer to John or reaching out to touch him. However, he frowned at his reflection in the cab window, if he allowed himself to unbend that far, he didn’t trust that possessive, greedy part of him not to push for more right then and there. He hardly needed to get them thrown out of the cab; he had important things to do. The driver had already been stealing glances at them in the rear-view mirror, though he might simply have been the curious type.

“Alright, Sherlock?” John asked quietly, brows up. Hearing his voice, Sherlock’s excellent memory spontaneously replayed samplings of it from the night before; John’s breathless pleas, growling curses, crooned praises, and laughter. Their first frantic coupling—barely even sex at all, considering how soon they were rendered insensible—had given Sherlock a taste, even an expectation, of what sort of lover John might be, but the reality had been better than his estimations. Extremely satisfying. In the few seconds that it had taken for all of that to run through Sherlock’s mind, John waited, and then a slow, slightly off-centre smile curved his lips. “It’s going to take some getting used to, I guess.”

Refocusing more sharply on John, Sherlock’s brows rose. While deep in his multiply-layered thoughts, what had he missed? Ah, of course. The feeling of calm coming from John wasn’t complete; there were small signs that the calm was forced—just as Sherlock’s was—and also the result of no doubt hard-won self-control. “You’re still feeling it, as well?” Sherlock finally murmured, meant for their ears alone.

John’s small, self-conscious smile and nod were accompanied by a pinkening of his eartips and a fainter flush to his cheeks. Where his hands had been nested in his lap, one cradled in the other, now his fingers twined loosely together. His voice was equally quiet, but very warm as he replied, “Oh, yes. It’s a bit… strong.”

Somehow knowing John was feeling the same thing made it better and worse at the same time. “I don’t suppose, since you started this, that you’ve come up with a way to shut it off?” He was reasonably certain that the answer was ‘no’, but could not quite help the asking. John would have done so by now, if he had been able.

Shaking his head, interlaced fingers tightening and then loosening; John was clearly working for more of that calmness. He blew out a breath through loosely pursed lips. “Nothing that I can think of. I…” Swallowing, looking both determined and discomfited, John went on in a firmer tone, “I am sorry, Sherlock. I swear I had no idea this would happen.”

The night before, when they’d lazed in Sherlock’s bed, loosely touching, sated and drowsy, John had twice begun what Sherlock had known would be an apology, but Sherlock hadn’t allowed him to finish. The second time, John had been a little more determined and it had taken Sherlock’s rolling him onto his back and kissing him breathless to derail him, leading to more rolling about and… Sherlock cut off the thoughts, firmly shoving aside the arousal that was growing along with them. His voice was a little harsh as he said, “I highly doubt you would have done it if you _had_ , John. Don’t be dull.”

“Still,” John murmured stubbornly. “I know this must be… disruptive for you.”

“It is. I shall deal with it,” Sherlock replied crisply. “As will you.” 

John nodded, taking a deep, slow breath. “If it becomes a problem, let me know, I’ll go have a cuppa somewhere or something, so you can focus.”

Scowling, finding the idea of John’s being away from his side intolerable, which he in turn found troublesome but still inarguable, Sherlock snapped, “Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t have had you come along if I didn’t require your assistance. You’re hardly of any use to me loitering about in a café somewhere.”

Despite Sherlock’s waspish tone, John looked strangely reassured, nodding and relaxing a bit, fingers uncurling once more. It was more of an effort than it ought to have been to avoid reaching the rather short distance between them to take John’s nearest hand in his own gloved fingers, to feel the bones within the flesh move and articulate, to count the subtle beats of his heart by the throbbing running through those strong, well-made fingers. He sighed silently and stuffed his hands into his overcoat pockets, once more turning his thoughts quite determinedly to contemplating what he knew of the case at hand.

A few minutes later John tucked his own hands into his jacket pockets and Sherlock was almost certain he caught a glimpse of a slightly crooked smile on John’s face in the reflection of the window beyond him. It was rather bizarre to feel both amused and annoyed at the same time.

On the periphery of his awareness during the cab ride, Sherlock noticed that the driver kept shifting in his seat more and more often as time passed, driving slightly over the speed-limit the last third of the way. Sherlock took a good look as he handed over the fare, seeing a middle-aged man with a rather constipated expression on his reasonably average face, wedding ring, neatly-kept clothing, small photo of the driver with a woman and three children tucked at the corner of the instrument panel, smelling of cheap deodorant, pizza, tea, and arousal. Arousal? However, despite that, the man’s gaze wouldn’t stay on Sherlock, nor did it wander past him to John; apparently he required a less direct method of admiring the object, or objects, of his secondary sexual preference. Nothing unusual, not even particularly interesting. Sherlock had dismissed the cab driver’s peculiarity from his mind before he and John reached the entrance to Scotland Yard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some small fixes - 10/25/11  
> Update 11/13/12


	21. John - What Cologne?

John followed Sherlock in and up to Lestrade’s office, hardly paying any attention to anyone they passed; it was old hat by now. Though they hadn’t discussed it, John was quite sure Sherlock wouldn’t want the Yarders to know anything had changed; even if about half of those they dealt with regularly already thought they were shagging. He wondered if anyone was making book on it.

“Well, at least you both _look_ well enough,” Lestrade said in greeting when they entered his office, he waved them at the two chairs in front of his desk. 

“No one’s at their best when awakened from a sound sleep,” John dismissed as he sat down. 

“Some less so than others,” Sherlock drawled, taking the other chair and not quite hiding a smirk. John rolled his eyes and caught Lestrade’s gaze; they shared a brief, small head-shake and the DI sat in his own chair, tossing a file to the front edge of the desk nearest Sherlock.

“Paul Betancourt,” he said as Sherlock took up the file and opened it. “The victim, Jill Carter, was his girlfriend for about six years.” He idly rocked his chair side to side a little as Sherlock quickly flipped pages in the file. “Betancourt says he came home to confront her because he’d heard she was cheating on him.”

“So, an argument gone bad?” John murmured, leaning over to look at the file, too. The man in the picture at the top of the information sheet looked haggard and worn, eyes rather empty of life; he also did not at all look like the sort who could half twist a person’s head off. Flipping to the transcription of the man’s confession, Sherlock paused there, angling the page slightly better for John and resting his thumb under a specific sentence. _‘Betancourt claims to be unable to remember much of anything after he lost his temper.’_

“That’s what he said in his confession,” Lestrade agreed with a nod to John, eyes then focusing upon Sherlock and lingering there, sweeping down to the file in his still-gloved hands. “Her blood was on his hands, spatters on his skin and clothing.”

“They don’t match the proper pattern for him to have been the killer, though,” Sherlock said as he flipped to another page. Lestrade grimaced and huffed a frustrated breath out through his nose. “In fact, they probably look as though he was standing a yard or more from the source of the blood spray.”

“Yes. We’ve only had the last of the forensics reports in late yesterday. What do you know?” Brown eyes going to John again, flicking downward briefly before returning to Sherlock, Lestrade didn’t sound disbelieving as much as he did a little frustrated. He’d gone past the point of easily doubting Sherlock’s seemingly out-of-the-blue deductions before John ever came on the scene, but Lestrade was still a bit aggravated that he couldn’t make those connections for himself. Thing was, everyone who dealt with Sherlock felt that way, so it no longer needed to be addressed aloud, they all knew what it was and why it was; Sherlock probably didn’t even notice it anymore.

“I know that John also doubts he could have done it. I know the evidence at the scene points more to his being a witness, at the very least, and perhaps an accomplice, which would account for his insistence that he’s guilty. Furthermore, his confession reads like someone who’s had a psychotic break rather than someone suffering from hysterical amnesia,” Sherlock glanced at John, but didn’t seem to expect any input from him. He didn’t even glance up at Lestrade when he said, “I suppose you’ve had him evaluated?”

“Yes, of course.” Shifting in his seat, scooting his chair in further so he could lean his elbows on the desk, Lestrade slid another, slimmer folder across to Sherlock. “Got that report back just this morning. He’s technically sane, but he genuinely seems unable to remember the _actual_ murder, although he keeps insisting that he did it. Refuses counsel, too.”

Making a non-committal noise, Sherlock flipped very briefly through the pages and then handed both files to John before steepling his gloved fingertips together. “Yet the evidence clearly indicates he didn’t do it—very possibly _couldn’t_ have done—as I said from the start. He responds just well enough to test as sane, but both you and the analyst who evaluated him think there’s something very wrong with the man. Right, then.” Sherlock rose to his feet. “Take me to him.”

John put the files onto Lestrade’s desk, not having had the chance to do more than glance at the first page of the psychological evaluation, but knew they could probably get copies if they really needed them—if Sherlock needed them.

Lestrade made a quick call, confirming that Betancourt had been taken to an interview room, and then gestured for Sherlock and John to precede him to the door. He came around the desk and followed close behind John as Sherlock opened the office door and strode out. Lestrade reached over John’s shoulder and caught the door on its slow swing back, holding it while John passed through. John heard Lestrade inhale suddenly behind his head and half expected to be coughed or sneezed at, but it never came; had he stifled it? Had it been one of those oddball nearly-silent hiccups everyone has now and then when their diaphragm spasms randomly? It had been quiet enough that most people wouldn’t have heard it over the ambient noise outside Lestrade’s office, but John’s hearing wasn’t like most people’s. John dismissed it a moment later as unimportant.

In the lift, Sherlock stood against the far wall from John, looking distant, mind obviously on the case or something else. John very nearly had his shoulder against the opposite wall—they both knew exactly why they were putting that distance between them—and after a few moments John felt Lestrade’s attention on him; turning, he lifted his brows in implicit query.

Lestrade looked a little unfocused, a faint hint of colour to his face, and he licked his lips before saying, “John… I…” He cleared his throat, coughing into his fist and clearing his throat again, then spoke a little more firmly. “Sorry. John, I think you ought to go in with Sherlock if you hadn’t already planned to. I want you to really take a good look at Betancourt and give me your best opinion on whether you feel he’s _physically_ capable of twisting that poor girl’s head around like that.”

“I interview alone,” Sherlock rumbled, frowning at Lestrade, and then glancing at John. 

John shrugged very slightly. “I could observe through the one-way with Greg, if you’d rather.” He looked at Lestrade. “That work for you?”

“Oh, sure, sure, fine.” Nodding, Lestrade shifted his stance and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m going to have to cover all my bases if I’m to go against a willing confession, here.”

“Understood,” John murmured, nodding. When he turned his gaze to Sherlock, the man was studying Lestrade with almost no expression upon his face at all, his features a cool mask. But Sherlock didn’t say anything and Lestrade was looking up at the little numbers above the lift doors, clearly anticipating their arrival on the proper floor.

Lestrade exited first, then stood aside and allowed Sherlock to lead the way—he’d just push his way to the fore nine times out of ten, anyhow—and, though John usually kept fairly close to Sherlock so as not to lose him in a sudden change of direction, he hung back a bit this time. 

Sherlock was well ahead of them, having just turned a corner, when Lestrade murmured softly, “Have you switched to a new cologne or something, John?” He had that expression people wear when they’ve been trying to puzzle something out, but can’t help finally asking. 

Taking a moment to give Lestrade a rather puzzled look of his own, John shook his head. “Don’t wear any.” Although, wait, hadn’t he used Sherlock’s posh body-wash? No, that was last night… well, wee hours of the morning… he pushed those thoughts aside firmly, knowing exactly where they would lead. 

Shaking his head, Lestrade cleared his throat and started to speak, but Sherlock interrupted before the Inspector could produce a single syllable.

“I believe it might be beneficial if John accompanied me, after all.” He stood at the final corner before they would reach the dual row of interview room doors. 

“Fine,” John agreed, though throwing Sherlock a subtle querying expression. Sherlock’s eyes flicked to Lestrade and back to John, but his expression didn’t really change. John frowned slightly, wondering if this was about Sherlock’s unexpected bout of jealousy that morning.

“Good, good,” Lestrade approved with a nod, clearing his throat and taking a deeper breath before gesturing at the second door down on the right. “I’ll go in and talk to him first.”

“No,” Sherlock said firmly. Lestrade frowned and John just waited to hear why, though he already suspected. “He’s been informed that he’s to be interviewed, hasn’t he?”

“Yes, but—“ Lestrade began, but Sherlock interrupted him.

“Then let me make good use of his expectancy and possibly his nerves,” the detective said. When he saw the continued resistance in Lestrade’s expression, he explained further in an impatient tone, “You’ll change the parameters of his responses if you speak with him first.”

Sighing in resignation, Lestrade nodded; no doubt he could follow and agree with the reasoning, because he was certainly willing and able to argue such points with Sherlock in the past. “I’ll be monitoring, then. Bear in mind, if, as you say, he’s not the murderer, he’s just lost his girlfriend, alright?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently, but John gave Lestrade a reassuring expression and a nod. Lestrade held his gaze, eyes gone a bit… what? Blurry? Out of focus? Odd, anyhow, then he blinked a few times rapidly, nodded once, curtly, and turned to unlock the interview room door for them. He still looked a bit flushed and John wondered if the DI was coming down with something.

“John,” Sherlock said in a curt undertone, getting John’s attention. “Speak as little as possible and do try to follow my lead.”

“Anything I should know first, then?” John asked pointedly, since Sherlock set a rather high standard for ‘follow my lead’ sometimes. 

Looking impatient, Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave John a ‘you are not that stupid’ sort of expression. Glancing over at Lestrade, he gave the slightest hint of a sardonic smile and said crisply, “You will be, I believe the proper term is ‘the good cop,’ act accordingly.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” muttered Lestrade on a long-suffering sigh as John fought to keep back a laugh, though he couldn’t hide a smallish grin.

“No, no, it’s my fault, I keep making him watch telly,” John said to Lestrade, shaking his head at the narrow-eyed glare Sherlock threw him—there was little true annoyance in it. “Crap telly, at that.”

“Well stop it,” grumbled the DI in mock unease. “It’s creepy.” They both poorly smothered a snigger at one another.

“If you two are quite finished having flashbacks to form school…” drawled Sherlock, moving toward the door that Lestrade had unlocked but not yet opened. “May we accomplish something today?”

“By all means.” Lestrade turned the handle and stepped back with the door, insuring that he was not visible to the person within and that Sherlock and John could go in unimpeded. 

It wasn’t until the door thumped solidly shut behind them that John got a good look at the man they were there to speak with, and it was all he could do not to wish the door was still open so he could slip back through it and lock it behind him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a Scotland Yarder, nor do I play one on tv. I'm keeping fairly vague with my procedural gab, but I really don't know much about such things. Do feel free to let me know if anything's so buggered that it ruins it for you. Thanks.  
> ;D
> 
> Update 11/13/12


	22. Sherlock - The Interview

Sherlock paused just inside the door, taking in Betancourt’s appearance. The suspect appeared even worse off than the photo in his file had shown him to be, as if nearly all the life had been drained out of him. Though he lifted his gaze, dark blue eyes focusing on Sherlock before sliding past him to John; there was no curiosity, no fear, nothing. He was simply waiting for the next thing to react to.

Some would assume this was grief, remorse, even madness, but Sherlock only needed to inhale deeply and really _look_ at Paul Betancourt to know the truth of what was wrong with him. His condition had been caused by a vampire; one who had fed from him too often and taken too much, and who had very likely either mesmerised him to forget or simply terrified him to the point that something in his mind simply broke. Or…

“Mr. Betancourt,” Sherlock said in a cool, quiet voice. “My name is Sherlock Holmes and I’m here to ask you some questions about the person who killed Miss Carter.”

Betancourt’s eyes widened slightly before going dull again and his body tensed subtly before slumping once more. “I killed Jill,” he said dully.

Sherlock went to the table, where a single chair had been placed opposite Betancourt, and he was aware of John lingering by the door instead of following Sherlock further in. As he sat down, he was facing both Betancourt and John, thus was able to see John’s expression. 

He had noticed John’s sudden stillness a moment after the door had closed behind them, heard his slow, deep inhalation and exhalation, as well as the sudden increase in his heart rate—but now Sherlock only saw a wary tension in John which he wasn’t certain how to interpret, though there was no sign or smell of fear. 

Betancourt, however, smelled of old terror-sweat and despair, he smelled like prey that had been run till it was exhausted and bled until it could no longer even attempt to escape. Was that what troubled John? It was certainly distracting to Sherlock, triggering some of his deeper, more primal instincts, but he forced those reactions aside firmly. Just as he catalogued the faint scars at Betancourt’s neck and wrists—probably would have been taken for far older scars than they likely were—but then dismissed them from his foremost thoughts.

“With me is Dr. Watson. He is here to observe,” Sherlock told Betancourt, though the man didn’t turn his head or exhibit any curiosity. Glancing up at John again, Sherlock saw that John had got himself under control, his expression fairly neutral, though with strain showing through subtly enough that few would have seen it other than Sherlock. That particular distraction lessened, Sherlock went on speaking to Betancourt, his tone not changing, his inner observations strictly internal. “I want you to think back to the night of Jill’s murder. Where were you?” He had to see how thoroughly Betancourt had been mesmerised to confess to the crime; whether it had been done by an amateur or a master, and whether he could break through it.

“I went home to confront her,” Betancourt replied flatly, “because I found out she was cheating on me.”

“With whom?” Quick, firm, the question was implicitly impatient.

Betancourt blinked slowly, then said, “Someone I didn’t know.”

“Then how did you know she’d been unfaithful?” Right on the heels of the man’s words, sternly expectant.

Another few blinks of dark blue eyes, the shadows beneath them almost as dark, along with being bloodshot and having slightly yellowed sclera. “I heard… gossip. Then came home to confront her.”

Watching him closely, Sherlock’s voice grew slightly sharper. “Came home from where?”

A pause, then, “From the pub.”

“But there was no alcohol in your system.” He’d seen that much in the file. If the suspect had been drinking, it had been very little and had metabolised almost completely by the time he was tested, shortly after being arrested.

“I…” Betancourt blinked again, a faint frown briefly drawing his dark brown brows together. “I hadn’t had any yet. Came home. Came home to confront her.”

“Who was it told you?” Sherlock asked before the haggard man could repeat the whole spiel. “Who was gossiping?” 

Another pause. “One of my mates… down the pub.” 

“Whom?” Sharper, demanding now, and Betancourt’s eyelids flickered in a subtle flinch. “Which one of your mates told you?”

“It… it…” Blinking rapidly, his frown deepening, Betancourt’s fingers, having been resting loosely out in front of him on the table, now slid back toward himself until he stopped, palms against the edge. “It was…” His distress was becoming almost palpable as he struggled to answer. 

Sherlock half rose from his seat, leaning across the table to slap the flat of his hand down loudly, making even the dulled and distressed Betancourt jump and look up at him in wide-eyed surprise. Without hesitation, Sherlock caught the man’s gaze in that moment of disrupted thought and prompted adrenalin and _pushed_. Past his natural barriers—which were shredded and weak—past his surface toward the core of his personality, his _self_ , his free will. Then Sherlock spoke in a low, intent tone laden with command, pushing more with each phrase. “Paul Betancourt, tell me who it was. Who ordered you to confess? Who is controlling you?”

“No… it’s… I…” Betancourt seemed to be trying to answer in different ways, each sentence stymied from within before he could get past the first word.

“Who is it? Tell me!” Harsher now, Sherlock tried to grasp Betancourt’s will, to turn it away from whatever compulsion had been instilled in him. John shifted, taking a step forward, expression watchful and a bit concerned, clearly feeling the urge to intervene, but then he stopped, obviously catching the automatic impulse and suppressing it. Sherlock noted it in his peripheral vision but kept his focus on Betancourt’s struggle to respond.

“I… I _can’t_!” Groaned Betancourt roughly, as if it hurt to speak the words.

Sherlock could not only see but feel the struggle within Betancourt, using the same ‘other’ sense that allowed him to mesmerise most mortals, yet there was a strange _wrongness_ to the man, more than just the influence of another vampire. Whoever had manipulated his mind, his will, had done so many times without actually making him a Thrall—which Sherlock would have sensed—Betancourt’s psyche was irreparably damaged by that, let alone all that he may have been forced to do and/or witness, including the brutal murder of his girlfriend.

Worse still, there was a growing mental ‘flavour’ of familiarity as Sherlock tried to get a better ‘grip’ on Betancourt’s shredded will, increasing the more he tried to push aside that other influence; consequently, he only pushed harder.

Betancourt whispered hoarsely, “I can’t… I can’t…” over and over, eyes wide, held by Sherlock’s will from looking away, prevented from surrender by the imposed will of another vampire. The man was clutching the edge of the table so hard his fingertips had gone bloodless.

“Sherlock,” John murmured, almost too quietly to be heard, worry and warning in his tone. Sherlock gave a slight shake of his head without taking his gaze from Betancourt’s. No, he was so close, too close, he couldn’t stop now.

“Give me a name,” he ordered, pressuring Betancourt as hard as he dared, feeling the man’s already damaged mind on the cusp of fracturing further.

“I cannnn’t!” Betancourt wailed and rose abruptly to his feet, but he couldn’t slip Sherlock’s hold any further. Even as Sherlock heard the faint sound of Lestrade and someone else hurrying out of the observation room, Betancourt’s last wispy layer of enforced defence fell and he slumped back into his seat with a strangled cry of, “V-vi-victor! God, no, please, Victor! No, no, no, nooo…” Trailing off into something harsher and more raw than sobs, he then flopped forward with his arms outstretched on the table, and passed out entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update 11/13/12


	23. John – Confusing Behaviour

John had expected to have a more active role in the interview, but he had also expected it to _be_ an interview, not Sherlock forcing Betancourt to tell him what he wanted to know without touching him. Whatever Sherlock was doing, John could feel it very slightly through their connection. He could also feel Betancourt’s distress, on top of what he had already been sensing from the man, which had thrown and disturbed him the moment he’d first caught wind of it, so to speak. It came to him in the same way he sensed those people whom he could affect, an automatic assessment some part of him did whenever encountering a new person. What he got from Paul Betancourt made John wish he could turn that part of himself off.

Betancourt was riding on the cusp of madness, shattered and used up, the normal layers of defence against the world artificially replaced with something else. That something else had been set in place to make him answer questions by rote and generally function in response to his environment, but it was like cheesecloth, like a screen-door, and John could ‘see’ right through it. John could sense the dithering, shredded remains of Paul Betancourt’s personality.

It made him want to _do_ something to fix the poor man at the same time as it made him want to leave the room as quickly as possible and slam the door behind him; mainly because he knew there was no way to fix what had been done. The only kindness he could do Paul Betancourt, the only thing that would be of any real _help_ to him, would be to give him a quick death. The poor man was irretrievably broken.

Then, as if that weren’t enough, whatever Sherlock was doing—the compulsion or mental control he was trying to enforce—was pulling away those false layers that were keeping even that poor level of order in Betancourt’s mind. John watched and felt the man unravelling as if he were a knitted doll and Sherlock pulling the key thread… and pulling… and pulling. Sherlock would have answers, but he’d have the last of Betancourt’s false sanity along with them.

John hadn’t intended to speak aloud, but the warning just slipped out. Sherlock shook his head, never taking his attention off of Betancourt, and John struggled not to intervene. He had to look at it like triage; Betancourt wasn’t going to recover from what he’d already been through, no matter what, but if Sherlock got the information he was seeking, at least _some_ good might come of this disturbing situation.

When Betancourt cried out after Sherlock broke through, John caught the widening of Sherlock’s eyes, felt a pulse of something sharp and quickly smothered along their connection, and knew the name ‘Victor’ had some personal significance to him, but it was only a moment before he smoothed his features again. John was the one who kept Betancourt from sliding off the table onto the floor, but touching him was unpleasant; however, he could see Sherlock was still unsettled, his control not quite fully in place.

It seemed only a few seconds before Lestrade opened the door and hurried in, his features pulled into almost furious lines. Right behind him, Sally Donovan was already on her mobile calling for medical assistance.

“What the hell have you done, Sherlock?” demanded Lestrade as he stopped next to John, looking at Betancourt in angry concern.

“I got the information we needed,” snapped Sherlock, having arisen without John noticing, his gaze was on Betancourt and John noticed not only his enlarged pupils, but that his fangs were just the slightest bit visible.

“Sherlock, we need some cold water for him,” John said, catching Sherlock’s gaze as his face started to take on haughty lines. Slightly widening his eyes, John _pushed_ a little via their link, which gave him the strangest shiver deep inside and made Sherlock’s head rear back the tiniest bit; however, he wasn’t a genius for nothing, he lowered his eyes with the smallest dip of his chin in a subtle nod.

“Yes… right,” he murmured before hurrying out, not quite brushing against Sally on his way.

Easing Betancourt back into the chair, John looked at him with a doctor’s eye for physical signs, but he couldn’t help sensing more with his other abilities. The man’s enforced boundaries had been blown, very likely leaving him to face the things that had happened to send him ‘round the bend in the first place; his mind was gone, fled the still-living body that remained. Touching him was like touching a corpse whose autonomic functions just hadn’t ceased yet, John grimaced a little.

“How is he, John?” Lestrade asked in a low, unhappy tone. John just shook his head and the Inspector sighed heavily, saying quietly, “It’s not like he was all that stable, despite the evaluation, but this...”

“He was going to snap eventually,” John said quietly, turning to catch Lestrade’s eye. “You had to have seen that.”

“Yeah,” sighed Lestrade. “I only hoped… well, even if he’s not the killer, he’s still a witness, John.” Dark brown eyes searched John’s face, then fell to his mouth for a moment before continuing downward. “I had hoped you’d rein Sherlock in a bit.”

Debating several answers quickly, John chose, “No one else could have got it out of him, I can almost guarantee you that.” Lestrade studied John for a long moment, as if weighing how much he believed John’s words, his face still unhappy, still on the edge of angry, but after a long few moments he grimaced on a sigh and nodded. He believed.

“Look… John,” the Inspector then said, shifting minutely closer and lowering his voice as if he was about to say something confidential or personal. His brown eyes flicked down to John’s mouth again for a moment, his throat working in a noticeable swallow, and his slightly-stubbly cheeks once more took on a very subtle hint of colour.

“They’re on the way,” Sally said from closer by than Lestrade had evidently been aware, because the man twitched slightly and blinked as if startled and turned to look at her instead of saying whatever he had planned on saying. She was looking at John. “John, I thought you were meant to keep the freak from doing this sort of thing.”

John let out a slow breath, annoyed as well as disappointed with Sally and letting it show. “Sally, I’ve asked you not to call him that.”

Her brows went up and she shifted her stance, licking her lips and smirking slightly as she said in a low, taunting voice, “I’ll stop calling him _freak_ when he stops being one.” Her smooth, light-brown skin had taken on the slightest wash of pink and her eyes were bright with something like anticipation. John could see the pulse jumping rapidly at her throat. “I told you the _freak_ gets off on all this. More so turning this poor sod into mush,” she added with a nod to Betancourt’s unconscious form in the chair.

“Sally,” Lestrade murmured warningly.

The Detective Sergeant didn’t quite toss her head of curls, but the brief movement she made was close to it. Her eyes never left John and he inhaled to speak, stroppy words on the tip of his tongue, but what he smelled on that breath stopped him. Arousal, sharp and intense, and putting that together with Sally’s manner and her words, he realised she was pushing him on purpose; that she was—at least inwardly—excited by whatever thoughts were going on in her mind of what she might push John into doing.

“You know that’s not true,” John said, intentionally sounding calming. His own pulse had quickened, some of the darker impulses in his deeper nature triggered by the little signs she was giving off. She was apparently the sort who would push and incite until she got a sudden, wild reaction; possibly the sort who liked to be manhandled, or just liked angry sex.

“She does know that,” Lestrade said firmly, glaring a bit at Sally. “Go guide them down here, Sergeant Donovan,” he told her in a quietly authoritative voice.

Blinking a bit, lips twitching close to a pout, Sally gave John a very appraising, aggressively obvious once-over before turning smartly on her heel and striding out without another glance, hips rolling just a bit more than absolutely necessary.

John shook his head slightly, wondering what had brought that on after all this time of Sally’s almost blatant disinterest—considering her affair with Anderson, he’d begun to wonder if she just didn’t like single men at all, since he’d never witnessed her showing a smidge of attraction to anyone else—and turned to share a ‘what the hell was that about?’ look with Lestrade. He very nearly blurted out, ‘What? You, too?’ in a fit of frustration. Lestrade was hiding it far better, and now John realised the Inspector had been doing so since they’d been in his office earlier, but there was no mistaking the softening of his gaze, the slight blush, and the closer, more receptive body-language.

“Here’s the water,” Sherlock said in a sharp tone from the doorway, startling Lestrade into a soft gasp as his head whipped around toward the approaching consulting detective. “John, see if you can get a little of this into him.” Sherlock held the waxed paper cup out toward John, waiting until his fingers were on it before turning to Lestrade. “He gave us a definite lead, Inspector Lestrade, I’ll need your files on recent suspicious deaths or even severe injuries turning up in A&E reports, particularly those which appear related to possible BDSM encounters.”

“What?” Clearing his throat, glancing almost guiltily at John, despite the fact that he’d _said_ nothing untoward—John didn’t offer odds on whatever had been going through his mind, however—Lestrade almost visibly switched mental tracks and his expression sharpened. “BDSM? Is this about… Victor? What do you know?”

Stepping back, Sherlock held Lestrade’s gaze, and John felt the very subtle pull only because he was paying attention. His expression cool and business-like, Sherlock nodded, “I’ve heard… rumours… of a man named Victor who is very fond of such things, including dominating his partners mentally as well as physically.”

“What, brainwashing?” Lestrade’s interest was caught, clearly switching on his ‘Detective Inspector’ mode fully. “You think Betancourt was involved in that scene?”

“The signs point to it,” Sherlock confirmed, almost at the door, Lestrade following him. “Will you get me those files as soon as possible? I want to correlate any actual, solid evidence you may potentially possess with what _I_ know. You’ll need to tie more into this than Betancourt, as he’ll hardly be able to testify.”

“Yeah, I can bloody well see that!” Shifting further into his official role, Lestrade’s voice took on the edge of anger again. “What the hell did you do?”

“I used the proper words and intonations to trigger him,” Sherlock replied smoothly, lifting his chin. “A very good psychologist _might_ manage something similar, but you’d never find one both adequate to the task and willing to work for the police.” His gaze flickered, not quite looking away, and he gave a short nod. “Your paramedics are almost here. Do you require us any longer or may we give whatever statements you require later?”

Lestrade turned to John, his expression querying, obviously looking for confirmation from John, the doctor. Willing to back Sherlock up on what he’d said, as well as willing to come back later for a statement, John merely nodded and tried to look reassuring. Grimacing, Lestrade made a dismissing gesture. “Fine, then, go. I’ll call you back when I need you.”

“John.” Sherlock’s tone was peremptory and John’s eyes snapped to him automatically, though he didn’t move an inch by habit and sheer stubborn will. “We must go.”

Glancing at Lestrade, John nodded, leaving the cup on the table before taking one last check of Betancourt’s position—he was balanced well enough to remain in the chair till the paramedics took charge—he then crossed to the door. When he might have paused to speak further to Lestrade, Sherlock caught the crook of John’s elbow and dug his fingers in slightly before tugging.

“Just give us a call, Greg,” John said, lifting his free hand in a farewell gesture before Sherlock all but dragged him out the door. Instead of going back the way they’d come, he led the way to the stairwell at the other end of the corridor and opened the door, nearly shoving John through as the paramedics were turning the corner down the other end.

“What the hell—” John began, but was cut off when Sherlock pushed him against the wall with one hand at the centre of his chest, leaning in and inhaling him, much as he’d done right after their big confrontation and reveal. Yet again, John was affected by the sheer primal nature of the action, and he held still, the air leaving his lungs in a bit of a rush as Sherlock’s hair brushed his cheek. “What are you…” His words failed him again when Sherlock repeated another of his previous actions by dragging John’s collar aside and licking his neck, exhaling slowly after a moment. The reactive arousal that had shimmered through him at being pushed against the wall—he hoped someday that not every single interaction between himself and Sherlock would make him think of sex—went up several more notches when Sherlock’s tongue glided along his skin. “What is _with_ everyone today?” John finally demanded.

“What is _with_ everyone today, John,” Sherlock replied in a low, rumbling voice, though his expression wasn’t one of arousal when he lifted his head; he remained where he was, hand upon John’s chest as he went on, “is that the level of pheromones you’re producing is, frankly, impossible.”

“Pheromones?” On the cusp of telling Sherlock he was being far too peculiar for words, John stopped. The things he’d been noticing, Lestrade and Sally’s behaviours, combined with he and Sherlock’s alarmingly strong reactions to one another. “Oh, buggering hell.”

One corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up as he nodded. “I expect it’s not just you, but I believe yours are affecting humans far more strongly than mine are.”

“But…” John frowned, bringing up his own wrist and sniffing, then boldly reaching up and cupping the back of Sherlock’s neck, pulling him down into range. Sniffing, then doing it again, he dragged Sherlock’s scarf downward before leaning up and in once more, the tip of his nose brushing Sherlock’s smooth, pale skin. John closed his eyes to really _evaluate_ what he was smelling.

This wasn’t as much a part of who John was as it seemed to be for Sherlock, but his sense of smell was still far superior to a human’s. Swallowing, he touched his tongue to his wrist, recognising his own, normal ‘flavour’, but trying to see if there was anything more. Then he inhaled at Sherlock’s neck again—the man just stood there, letting him do it, though John was aware he’d moved closer, one foot on either side of John’s own—and John then licked, tasting a number of things he hadn’t even realised he’d noticed were common to Sherlock’s skin. Something… yes… some subtle, musky tone underlay the other components of what he tasted upon his tongue. Licking himself again, he exhaled through his nose, frowning.

“You may not possess the faculties for this, John,” Sherlock told him, voice lower than before, words coming out just the tiniest bit more breathy.

“No, but… there’s something there,” John said musingly. He licked Sherlock’s neck, almost burrowing his face into the base of that long, graceful column of which he had grown quite, quite fond. The faintest mark still lingered, a roughly-oval pinkish area, one of the places where John had expressed his lusty appreciation the night before. He closed his eyes again, struggling to stay focused on what he was trying to evaluate instead of the growing urge to do other things.

Sherlock was remaining still, almost not breathing, and John could very nearly _feel_ the man’s deliberate restraint. It was vaguely reassuring, but a small part of him found it arousing—well, really, right now they were finding just about _everything_ arousing between them—and he licked once more, lingeringly, and exhaled. Yes. It was there.

“We both are,” John murmured. “You’re right. I can barely taste it, and smell it.”

“John,” Sherlock whispered. “I think it would be best if we went home and sorted this out.”

John took a bracing breath and nodded as he let his hand fall away from the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Yeah, I think so,” he agreed with a rougher edge of want in his voice that he could hear for himself.

Sherlock’s pupils were enlarged again, though his fangs hadn’t lengthened, and when John curiously reached out to see if their connection was still there, he almost moaned at the feeling of greedy lust that ghosted through him in a rush of subtle tingles in his nerves.

Pressing closer with the beginnings of a growl in his voice, Sherlock’s fingers on John’s chest dug in a bit. “Don’t tempt me, John.” He rubbed his cheek along the side of John’s head as he brought his lips down to the level of John’s ear. “I would most happily have you right here, if pressed.”

The idea did _not_ put John off in any of the ways it ought to have done. Taking a deep, slightly uneven breath, John pushed Sherlock away, having to give a really good shove to do it, and was aware that Sherlock was tracking his every move in that tense, predatory way that revealed the edge of his inhuman ancestry. Yet again, it did not deter John; in fact, a part of him found it indecently exciting.

“Best we get the hell home, then,” John finally replied, amused as well as aroused and, taking a few steps toward the stairs before he caught Sherlock’s darkened eyes, told him softly, “because I’m a bit too likely to let you right now.”

A slow, entirely wicked smile crept across Sherlock’s too-perfect lips and John felt the jolt of pure lust deep down in his gut. He didn’t _quite_ take the stairs two at a time, but he went a bit faster than was strictly safe or wise. They were outside in only a few minutes and Sherlock annoyed the driver of the cab they finally flagged down by insisting he keep the windows open all the way to Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated 11/13/12


	24. Sherlock – Indulging The Pheromones

Getting out of the cab, mind already anticipating how soon he could reasonably—or unreasonably—get John undressed enough to have sex, of course fully naked would be nice, but not critical. At least, not the first time. The next series of thoughts were rapid-fire on the heels of that one very strong thought/intention; that they could and very likely would be rather loud, Mrs. Hudson would still be awake, she must have heard them at least once thus far despite not complaining—yet—and perhaps she wouldn’t object to some sound-proofing being installed, and lastly that he might be able to get Mycroft to assist in that endeavour if he were to do him some trifling favour sometime. 

The thought of bargaining with Mycroft soured his mood enough that he didn’t immediately shove John against the first wall available and ravage his mouth the way he had wanted moments before. However, even as he was contemplating which of several likely things Mycroft would ask of him, his mobile alerted him to a text. John was already on the first steps leading to their flat as Sherlock pulled out his mobile and read the message.

_[What purpose was served by the recent flagrant display on public streets and in the park? Thought your pet had more sense if not you. – MH]_

Sherlock’s lips took on a sneer as he followed John up the stairs, but noticed John was waiting for him at the door with a querying expression. The shorter man could not have asked _‘what was that about?’_ more clearly if he had said the words.

“Mycroft is aware of our little romp through London and into the park,” Sherlock murmured, unable not to put a bit of a low thrum of remembered pleasure to the words as he came even with John before their door. “It seems he expects you to have more sense than I.”

John’s lips quirked and he smiled, though his pupils had enlarged noticeably at Sherlock’s tone. “Well, see, that just proves he’s smarter than you are, because he’s right. I usually do. But now I wonder if he meant it as a compliment, and I’m not sure how I should take that.”

“He didn’t text it to _you_ , John.” Despite the drawling sarcasm in Sherlock’s words, John’s brows twitched upward and a little smile curved his lips as he opened the door. A moment later Sherlock caught not only the reason for the smile, but realised that he hadn’t caught it _before_ John. That Mycroft had very likely counted on Sherlock relaying to John all or part of the text couldn’t be discounted, but Sherlock had to wonder if his oh-so-superior elder brother had anticipated John understanding that it _was_ deliberate and that this would mean it was, indeed, either a compliment or complaint aimed _at_ John.

John had opened the door and was only two steps into the sitting room when Sherlock exhaled shortly in frustration and reached out to catch John’s shoulder, turning him around when he halted at the touch. His mostly-blue eyes were still darker than average with excitement, and his light brownish brows still raised. Running his hand up John’s shoulder to his nape, Sherlock moved in close, feeling the steady throb of John’s life beneath his fingers.

Letting his voice sink into a knowing purr, Sherlock asked mere centimetres from John’s mouth, “You think you’re clever, do you?”

A slow, equally knowing smile curved John’s lips, his pupils widening further, and both arousal and humour sparked in those eyes and in the subtle changes in his features. “Sometimes I’m fucking brilliant, actually, yeah,” John replied cockily, his stance showing he was not in any way intimidated by Sherlock’s; which Sherlock found he quite enjoyed. He had kept his reaction strictly private in the past, suppressing it firmly. It was… a deliciously tempting self-confidence that John Watson could project, an implicit challenge begging to be met. Flicking his brows higher for a second, John’s smile widened and took on a leering hint. “You think he saw us? In the park?”

“I doubt it,” replied Sherlock, inhaling deeply, drinking in the small changes in John’s scent and feeling the skin beneath his hand warm a tiny increment. “None of the cameras in that park would be able to focus upon that spot properly. He’d see us going into the area and coming out, only, nothing more.”

“Good,” John said, his chest rising more than normal as he breathed deeper, probably doing the same thing as Sherlock, if perhaps not consciously. 

Sherlock smirked. “Shy, John? I never knew.” It was just a moment of stillness and another, slightly different cant of his eyebrows and lips that told Sherlock John was going to do something, but he remained where he was, curious to see what it would be. 

Fingers going to the buttons of Sherlock’s overcoat, John slid them free as he said with a distinct edge to his tone, “No, just that if your brother is going to watch us fucking, I want him to get a good show.” A lurch of reactive lust skittered through Sherlock at the words and he rubbed a slow circle at the angle of John’s jaw with his thumb as his lover parted the overcoat he’d just unbuttoned. “Wouldn’t want him to think …” A flutter of John’s eyelashes, a hitch in his breathing, and Sherlock felt a shimmer of warmth along all his nerves. “His little brother’s not being taken care of…” Another warm tingling wave blew through him and Sherlock’s own breath caught in his throat. “Properly.” With the last word, John’s hands slid up Sherlock’s torso, a soft susurrus almost too quiet to hear rising from his fingertips running along the fine corduroy texture of the suit jacket. 

“I don’t think I’d like him to watch us, actually,” Sherlock murmured, holding off returning the increasingly skilful manipulation of their connection, feeling the lingering tingle in his nerves, already getting hard—again—due to that and simple proximity. Now that John had triggered their connection, phantom flashes of unreal light flickered in Sherlock’s peripheral vision.

“Well, I suppose that _would_ be a bit not good.” John unbuttoned the suit jacket, running the backs of his fingernails up the white Sea Island cotton of Sherlock’s shirt, every thread making a distinct noise and sensation against his skin as John’s fingernails passed over them. It was distracting and arousing in confusingly equal measure. Was John aware of how it was triggering Sherlock’s senses or was that just happenstance?

“John, really,” Sherlock breathed with a hint of chide to his voice and tilt of his head. “It’s _not_ that he’s my brother.” He leaned down, letting his cheek slowly and deliberately slide along John’s until his lips were very nearly touching John’s tragus. “It’s that if he sees how well you fuck me, he’s just going to be envious.” Even as he spoke the words, his tone as suggestive as possible, Sherlock mentally pictured pulling John to him by that not-quite-visible shimmer that now surrounded them, seemed to fill the air between them; hooked his will and his lust into it and imagined them weaving through and into John’s flesh, bones, and nerves. 

Shivering visibly, his breath quavering, John’s pupils were huge when Sherlock pulled back enough to see them. Hooking one finger in the gap between two buttons on his shirt, John tugged just short of hard enough to tear either fabric or buttons. “Get this off or I’m going to enjoy seeing how far the buttons fly.”

Sherlock’s grin could not have been anything but feral. “That threat goes both ways, John, and you’ve got more layers left.”

His answer was a similarly predatory grin—granted without fangs—flashing in John’s face as he immediately began to strip with surprisingly efficient swiftness. “Challenge accepted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NaNoWriMo - 11/21/11  
> Update 11/13/12


	25. John - Changing The Parameters Of The Deal

Undressing as fast as he could without tearing anything, John knew he wasn’t going to get down to skin sooner than Sherlock; so, when he was down to undershirt and boxer-briefs, John caught Sherlock’s eye as the other man had his thumbs in the waistband of his unfastened trousers—nothing underneath them but skin—and, not hiding his wicked grin at all, John turned and ran for the stairs up to his room. A soft laugh escaping him as he went. 

He had just enough time to see the lift of one of Sherlock’s dark brows before he was turned away. John had got five steps up the stairs, was just grasping the hem of his undershirt to fling it up and off, when a surge of sharp, cold sensation pricked most of his nerve endings from the inside out. It was a hair away from registering as pain—mostly due to the intensity of it—but it was immediately followed by a tingling wave of pleasure, every nerve ending having just been jolted to full attention now feeling it. Sherlock. The man was still in the sitting room, and yet John smelled him, had the strong sense of being enveloped by his touch without actually _being_ touched. 

Stumbling on the stairs, knees going weak and a quiet, ragged moan escaping him, John caught himself on one hand and turned to look back down the stairs in blurry surprise, seeing Sherlock come to a stop on the landing below. No. He watched Sherlock _saunter_ to a halt there, eyes dark, and a knowing smile showing the fine points of his fangs. John’s arousal increased exponentially, a soft grunt escaping him as if he’d been lightly poked in the gut. 

Voice smooth and knowing, gone low and a bit growl-edged from arousal and his vampire nature, Sherlock shook his head slightly as he said, “I’m shocked, John. You? Cheating?” John heard the amusement beneath the subtle growl, perhaps felt it, he wasn’t sure, and he couldn’t stop a cheeky grin from pulling his mouth wider. Sherlock took a step closer and his eyes caught John’s, those wide, alien, beautiful eyes that pulled him in deeper and deeper. The tall, dark-haired man became gravitic north and John was a living lodestone, drawn irresistibly to him. It would feel good to go with it, to let himself fall into those eyes, to find what was at the bottom of their depthless black centres. 

A subtle shiver ran up John’s spine as he realised he was letting it happen, his curiosity helping the process. His instincts were whispering _wrong, resist_ , and the moment he changed his mind about surrendering a tingling waft of something like electricity, like pins and needles without the pain, sparked through him in a rush. John was then aware that his foot was on the next step down, aware that Sherlock’s pupils were huge and his face just beginning to register something like surprise. Blinking rapidly, John gripped the banister and resisted sitting down, giving Sherlock a mirror of his own mockingly surprised expression. “Now who’s cheating?”

For just a moment, Sherlock looked as if he was considering whether or not he wanted to be put out, studied John in a flickering glance that took in all of him before returning to his face; a smile bloomed upon those pale pink lips. “What took you so long to throw it off?” 

“I was curious,” John answered truthfully. His heart had slowed and body had felt heavy, but now the drumming in his chest was rapid, and he felt energised, as if he could run and run… but, no, he didn’t _want_ to run. “Come here,” he said softly, holding out his hand, palm up, and _touched_ Sherlock as he had that first time he’d revealed what he could do. John could see the shimmer of gold and green at the edges of his vision, knew it wasn’t something anyone else would have seen, and he could have traced through the air between them the path of their connection, but he didn’t pull on it, didn’t push, just sent that single, soft touch. A request, not a command. 

Sherlock’s eyelids lowered slightly, his lips parting as if to allow a gasp or a moan to escape, though none did. He took another step up, unfastened trousers riding low on his hips, eyes locked upon John’s, his movements just that touch too smooth and controlled, graceful in a way that most humans could not achieve without training; _‘otherworldly’_ , John thought randomly. One pale, long-fingered hand touched down on the step holding John’s foot, the next came to rest upon the step by John’s hip; Sherlock crawled up to and over John, who leaned back on his elbow, but left his beckoning hand outstretched, turning it palm down now.

Eyes still holding John’s, Sherlock tilted his head, brushing his cheek along John’s hand, moving closer. John shifted his outstretched hand slightly as Sherlock moved within reach, caressing his silky hair, fingers running lightly down his neck and coming to rest where it met his shoulder. It seemed only moments since Sherlock had been at the base of the stairs and now he was straddling John’s left thigh, one hand braced next to John’s shoulder, the other just coming to rest upon John’s chest. He spoke in a rumbling whisper with his hand directly atop the place where John’s heart lay. “This is dangerous.”

Fairly certain he wasn’t talking about sex, since they’d already leapt off that exploding bridge, John rubbed his thumb along the soft spot behind and below Sherlock’s ear. “What’s dangerous?”

“This… you…” he leant closer, inhaling slowly and exhaling with lowering eyelids, his hand slowly sliding down John’s chest, “us.” Over John’s sternum and down, fingers digging in just enough to drag on the fabric of his undershirt. “I shouldn’t allow this.” Sherlock gripped the fabric and exposed John’s stomach. “I’ll inevitably hurt you.”

“That’s what happens,” John replied quietly, his instincts torn between danger signals and sex signals; Sherlock was strong enough to kill him with bare hands alone, but he could also make him feel several shades of ecstasy with his bare hands alone. Keeping his own voice soft, John stroked the nape of Sherlock’s neck as he added, “lovers sometimes disagree, hurt each other’s feelings, maybe storm off in a snit, but then they get over it.”

“John, the sort of ‘snit’ I’m capable of could put you through a wall; I could shatter your bones or tear out your throat,” Sherlock told him chidingly, but still quietly, still with that edge of dark velvety growl beneath the words. “You’ve seen proof enough.”

“You don’t want to hurt me,” John said with soft certainty. “You couldn’t do it when I’d just held you at gunpoint.” He cupped Sherlock’s neck, gripped just a little more firmly and shook slightly, moving Sherlock a tiny bit side to side. “I could do some rather nasty things to you, too, for that matter; doesn’t mean I’m going to.”

“But you’ve a hold on me now,” Sherlock explained with a strange sort of earnestness as he slid John’s undershirt further up and then ran his hand under it, fingers warmed now against John’s body, but this time he let his splayed fingers remain upon the centre of John’s belly, the heel of his hand just above John’s navel. “This… connection between us.”

“Have you decided you don’t like it?” It was difficult to ignore Sherlock’s body being so close, the scent of him, the fact that he was still hard—John could see it as well as smelling it on him—and his voice made John shiver inside. John, too, was still aroused, despite knowing it was probably stupid of him, but the fact that he enjoyed danger wasn’t news. “I suppose we can try to—”

Sherlock interrupted him. “No, that’s the reason it’s dangerous,” he rumbled, hand moving downward, wrist turning, until he was cupping John’s foolish erection. “Do try to keep up, John, I know you’re not as stupid as you pretend.” A little uneven exhale escaped John at Sherlock’s touch through the thin fabric of his underwear, but he didn’t speak before Sherlock went on, thumb running up to the head of John’s cock and pressing very slightly. “It’s not that I don’t like it. You’ve seen more than enough evidence to the contrary. It’s that I _like_ it. I enjoy this…” He massaged John’s scrotum, pressing it up against the base of his cock and releasing, and this time a soft moan rose in John’s throat as Sherlock watched the colour rise to John’s face—John could feel the heat of it—and went on. “I enjoy you. I _want_ this, John. Want it always, all the time, and this bond we have only makes me want it more.”

Swallowing hard, licking his lips, John dug his fingers into the hair at the back of Sherlock’s head, meeting his eyes openly, hiding nothing. “It’s not just you; I do, too.” He risked his pride and forged ahead. “You probably already knew, considering it’s you, but I wanted this before the connection, before I knew what you were. Wanted you.”

Gray and black, though more black now than anything, Sherlock’s eyes widened and he left off teasing John’s erection to clutch a handful of the middle of his undershirt, pulling John upward by it as he lowered his head, saying mere millimetres from John’s mouth, “So did I.” 

A sound suspiciously like a whimper came from John’s throat as Sherlock kissed him deeply, John’s fingers tightening on a handful of dark hair; the last thing he’d expected was this, was to hear Sherlock admit any of it, let alone that last. Knowing he’d been wanted before this strange thing that he’d accidentally done to them, knowing Sherlock wanted—against his better judgement—for this to continue, meant more to John than he could have anticipated. It changed everything. 

It only remained to be seen if the change was for the better or the worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update 11/13/12


	26. Sherlock – Willing Addiction

Sherlock lay draped over John without counting the time, without paying the slightest heed to the seconds or minutes that usually spun round in perfect precision in a corner of his mind. Instead, he kept his lips against the healing marks from his earlier bite, nose brushing the warm, smooth skin behind and below John’s ear, just breathing in the scent of him. In his ears the sound of the blood thrumming steadily throughout John’s body was hypnotic, soothing, a drumbeat that he could feel resonating through his own senses in waves. It was as though the rhythm of John’s heartbeat rocked them both in slow counterpoint, each dual thump a warm, pleasurable sensation passing from John, through Sherlock, and back. 

Though there was only blackness behind his eyelids, he had the elusive impression that he was surrounded in gently sparkling light, like ephemeral fairy lights that dimmed and brightened in slow fluctuations that matched John’s pulse. The euphoria that usually came from feeding was nothing to this, never lasted so long, nor had it ever felt as if the pleasure of it were soaking deep into his flesh and bones; this was like the difference between getting high on the best drugs money could buy and simply getting drunk. 

Sherlock evaluated his mental files on drinking from John. Nothing since had been as strong as the first time; in fact, this most recent experience had been very like the second time, in the shower the night before, when John had fearlessly accepted Sherlock’s feeding from him. God, that had been unbelievable. This had easily matched it, perhaps surpassed it in some ways.

Beneath him, John’s fingers stroked idle patterns on Sherlock’s back and hip, working his way down to thigh, then up again when he could reach no further, his movements slowing as his breathing deepened. Sherlock knew John would doze if undisturbed, felt it in those deepening breaths, in the levelling of his heart beat, in the relaxing of his muscles; they were in John’s bed, where he felt safe, and had just fucked like it was an Olympic event. John had done his best to pound Sherlock through the mattress once they’d fumbled the lube out, after Sherlock had growled and cursed the time it took for John to apply it even cursorily. A bit later, with a hard pull on their connection, Sherlock had rolled them over, making John groan and curse him right back as he was caught by surprise, his wrists held above his head and Sherlock riding him with just as much enthusiasm as John had been showing. As if they’d done it dozens of times—more—both of them pulled on their uncanny link together, falling into that reciprocal pattern, a metaphysical metaphor for the very physical and real actions of their bodies. Even as Sherlock had licked at John’s throat, trying to decide whether or not to ask if he could steal away more of his precious, rich blood, John had growled, _‘Yes, do it, yes!’_ , his fingers twining in Sherlock’s hair and holding him there as he thrust up into him greedily. 

It had been glorious. No overload, no explosion of too much, but a fast, intense upswell of their pleasure, enhanced by the chemical mechanism of the vampiric bite, and then enhanced even further by the tingling, surging rush of their connection. The pleasure had rolled through them and around them like a tangible force, but Sherlock could feel that it was truly a product of both of them; however strong the sensations were, he knew John was not enthralled, Sherlock also knew he, himself was fully able to stop and pull away. It wasn’t the blood-frenzy, which he had only felt twice—once in his youth, as most of his kind experienced when their bodies were changing, and once some years past when Mycroft had been forced to intervene—but it was nearly as strong while being infinitely more pleasurable. He had orgasmed at the first taste of John’s hot, thick blood and John had nearly bucked him into another a few moments later when he came with a long, loud wordless shout, also nearly pulling free of Sherlock’s grip, despite his preternatural Vampiric strength. 

For several minutes afterwards, John had moaned softly upon each exhale, clutching Sherlock to him as though he would never let go, and Sherlock had held on just as tightly, savouring the taste of John’s life in his mouth, the intimate heat of him still buried deep in Sherlock’s body. Sex had never been so consuming, feeding had never been so satisfying; more so because he could feel the echo of the same pleasurable contentment in John, faintly enough that he could ignore it if he wanted, but definitely present. Their connection, humming with life and energy that washed through Sherlock in delightful waves, as well as the smooth high of the endorphins, kept him from twitching in surprise as a tentative little thought skittered delicately through his unusually peaceful mind… _‘I could be happy with this. With him. With John and the work, everything else could be bearable.’_

Though he was still relaxed, still languorous and sated, Sherlock’s legs tightened slightly around John’s lower torso and he slid his hands around and underneath, fingers spread flat against John’s back between him and the rumpled sheet. He’d never had such a thought about another person in his life.

Rousing from his near-doze, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock with a humming sound of approval, turning his head a little and running one hand up to dig his fingers into Sherlock’s hair. “I can see why you thought this might be dangerous,” he murmured, stroking through Sherlock’s hair in a way that was far more soothing than such a simple action had any right to be. “Dangerously addictive. Still say you could sell tickets,” he added warmly, and Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice, feel the shift in his breathing that would have been a soft chuckle if he weren’t so relaxed.

“To whom?” Sherlock whispered against John’s upper trapezius, too comfortable to quite growl at the idea of anyone else touching John this intimately and entirely uninterested in having anyone else, himself. This time he felt the actual quiet chuckle happen, though someone standing across the smallish room wouldn’t have heard a thing. The fingers in his hair didn’t falter and John’s breath wafted over Sherlock’s own neck and upper shoulder when he spoke. 

“Hypothetical people,” John qualified, voice low and lazy, imbued with that smile that Sherlock didn’t have to see to know was there. “Hypothetical tickets sold to hypothetical people for hypothetical money.”

Nipping John’s shoulder, then turning his head to delicately lick the already much tinier punctures at his neck, Sherlock managed a bit more of a growl. “Hypothetical people whom I would cheerfully murder, hypothetical money or not.” He smiled against the delicious scent and taste of John’s skin. “You’re mine now.”

“Oh, am I?” It wasn’t an argument, or a challenge, the amusement was still there, John’s touch was still gentle and soothing against Sherlock’s scalp. 

Lifting his head, knowing he was indulging John’s silly romantic side as much as warning him, Sherlock met his eyes, uncaring that his own were still blown large and dark with the echoes of lust and recent feeding. “You are. Your body, your blood—particularly your blood—all of you. Mine.” 

John’s eyes, pupils also incredibly dilated, were unguarded and still showing that amused warmth, coloured by the lingering sultry edge of their recent pleasure. The subtle smile pulling at John’s lips, as Sherlock knew it would be, grew a bit wider, going just a tad crooked; though he still looked humorous, there was just a hint of a firmer undertone to his voice as he said, “That goes both ways, then. Like I said before. Not particularly interested in your blood, except keeping it inside you where it belongs, but your body?” His eyelids lowered a bit and his hand tightened in Sherlock’s hair, the other running down his back to cup the curve of his right buttock. “You don’t want to know what I’d do to anyone messing about with this gorgeous body of yours.”

Smirking, Sherlock knew John wanted to kiss him and resisted the subtle tug of both the hand in his hair and the pull via their connection. “Well, you did shoot that cabbie—Hope.”

The humour in John’s darker than usual blue eyes gave way to something a little harder, a little sharper; his voice going a bit deeper and darker, as well. “True, but I didn’t know you that well then.” Sherlock felt the shift in John, as much in his expression as through their link, and if John been another vampire, Sherlock would have expected his fangs to run out as he continued. “But now? Oh, no. Now, shooting would be a kindness.”

Sherlock really could do nothing else but kiss John then, hard and deeply, despite the fact that his fangs had extended again. John met him hungrily, curling his tongue eagerly around Sherlock’s, having already got quite good at avoiding the fangs; unless he deliberately pressed his tongue into the tip of one of those fangs, as he did now. The tiny trace of blood made Sherlock rumble in pleasure and John’s mouth tightened at the corners, a smile trying to happen at having garnered the sound from him. 

Sherlock wondered if he ought to chart their stamina and refractory periods, comparing them to the progress of their connection, but decided he would wait until later to mention the experiment; in the meantime, he would begin by seeing how long it took to get John hard again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  __  
>  **This chapter may be a little self-serving, I'll admit, but there ARE some relevant, plot-movey-forwardy bits in there, too. I swear!**
> 
>  
> 
> Updated 11/13/12


	27. John – Paying The Price For Pleasure

Someone mumbling somewhere nearby pulled John slowly out of his dream; a muddled something or other about a woman with fine, pale features and large, strangely-vivid green eyes staring down at him. He tried to hold onto the dream, because he wanted to know if she was going to speak, was trying to remember why she looked familiar. Also, because when she dangled a gossamer wisp of her golden hair above him, he could see her dainty gem-hung ear had a curved, pointed tip. She was shaking her head, as if disappointed or gently dismayed as the voice in John’s ear insistently blurred her out and made him aware of the sheets against his skin, the pillow beneath his face, and the soft breath tickling at his ear. He grunted in annoyance.

“I shan’t stop pestering you until I’m certain you’re actually conscious, John,” said Sherlock, sounding amused.

“What? Why?” John demanded, mostly into the pillow. Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning over John, smelling of coffee, butter (had he made himself toast?), and that sinfully expensive hair product he used when he was going out in public rather than simply to Bart’s or the Yard. “Where’re we going?” 

“ _We_ are not going anywhere,” Sherlock corrected, voice smoothly firm. “ _I_ am going out to do a little research.”

Prying open his eyes with an effort, John lifted his head to blink at the alarm clock on his nightstand. Slanted sunlight was coming through the half-opened curtains, so he could only presume that the numbers he saw—04:07—meant it was late afternoon, rather than pre-dawn. “I’m good, just gimme a few minutes,” he argued, feeling as if someone had dialled gravity up to about three times the normal drag. 

“John.” At the ‘you’re not listening to me’ tone in which his name was spoken, John turned his head to look up at Sherlock. The man wasn’t precisely smiling, but he had all the little signs of suppressed humour in his expression, and he trailed fingers through John’s sleep-mussed hair in a very nearly fond fashion. “I have taken your blood three times in as many days, plus we have had the sort of sex that generally only happens in pornographic films. Despite your remarkable stamina…” his slight pause presaged a decided deepening of Sherlock’s voice, along with a shimmer of something languid and smug that John was certain bled through their connection, “it was bound to catch up to you eventually.”

“You didn’t take that much,” protested John as Sherlock’s fingers smoothing his short hair down and back took away an unfairly large part of his resistance. It felt incredibly nice, actually. Who knew Sherlock could be good at such a thing?

“Stop arguing.” On the last sweep of his hand along the curve of John’s skull, Sherlock cupped the back of his head and leant down to kiss him; not so much a deep kiss as a series of the nibbling, lazy kind, one after the other. John let himself be steadily urged over and onto his back as they kissed, and his arms went around Sherlock to pull him closer, though he only managed to get him most of the way down. Parting from John’s mouth, though not pulling away very far yet, Sherlock’s eyelids were decidedly heavier and his eyes noticeably dilated as he said in a much softer tone, “You’ll not distract me by getting me back into this bed with you, either. I have far more experience in this matter, John; despite your being a doctor. You must treat yourself as if you were recovering from a bout of the flu or a bad cold. Liquids, rest, stay warm.”

Making a disgruntled sound, John realised his body was aching more and more as his sluggish brain woke up more fully, but he still didn’t want Sherlock to go anywhere. “I’d be warmer if you stayed here with me.” 

Chuckling in a low, knowing manner that did not in any way make John think of resting, Sherlock shook his head with a crooked hint of a smile. “If I stay in with you, I think we both know there’d be no resting accomplished.” He steadily sat upright again, even though John still held onto him.

Letting go of Sherlock, having been half-dragged into a sitting position before he did so, John flopped the short distance back onto the mattress and pillow with a disgusted huff of air. “So, research,” he repeated, processing a little more now. Of course, the Work. “For the Carter/Betancourt case?” Sherlock nodded, one hand lingering against the side of John’s neck, his thumb caressing lightly along the steady flutter of John’s carotid. Inhaling, deliberately making himself think despite his body and mind’s resistance, John nodded in return. “Yeah, and Greg’s going to want us to give statements. If not today, then by tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow morning,” Sherlock confirmed. “He texted me this morning.”

“Right.” John patted Sherlock’s thigh, not at all surprised. He couldn’t deny the proof of the heavy fatigue in his body, or the aches, but he’d felt worse and still gone off gadding about with his brilliant, mad friend… vampire… lover… partner? Pushing aside his brain’s sudden urge to label things, he frowned up at Sherlock despite the man’s soothing caress at his neck. “Research, fine, but nothing dangerous, yeah?”

Though he rolled his eyes as if John were speaking nonsense, Sherlock still repeated, “Nothing dangerous.” John willed Sherlock to meet his gaze, not intentionally drawing on their connection, but he felt a subtle sort of response that told him he could have done, even feeling as logy as he did. After a few seconds spent focused on the spot he was petting upon John’s neck—judging by its sensitivity, probably where John’d last been bitten—Sherlock’s eyes caught his, seeming more greenish-grey at that moment, and when John lifted his brows in a silent prompt, Sherlock’s own brows lowered and his mouth pulled into a flatter line. “I won’t deliberately look for trouble. Happy?” 

Sensing that Sherlock was skirting the edge of a lie without actually speaking it, John reached up and caught the hand at his neck, pulling it down to rest upon his chest, trapped between both his own hands. “Listen, you want me to stay here and recuperate, fine. I’m not arguing that I probably need it. However…” One of Sherlock’s brows lifted and his expression went a few increments cooler. “No. No, assumptions. Just, please, if you get a lead and need to do something risky, text me. I’ll come back you up.”

Sherlock’s lips pressed together more tightly and John could almost hear the wheels turning in his head, feel his resistance. 

“We both know I’m going to recover faster than your average… person,” John reminded him, fingertips stroking Sherlock’s hand gently, though he wasn’t entirely sure when he’d started doing it; touching him was already second-nature now, and that new habit was clearly mutual, given Sherlock’s behaviour thus far since John had been awakened. It was almost… well, it was continuing to be more affectionate—even given the changes between them—than John had been expecting. 

With a tilt of his head, Sherlock conceded the point, though his expression showed a hint of his usual irritation at dealing with the obvious. “If a situation should arise wherein I feel it advisable to do so, then, yes, I’ll contact you.” 

Nodding, John brought Sherlock’s hand up to his mouth, placing a kiss in the palm. “Thank you.” Sherlock only blinked at him slowly, not resisting, and John ran the tip of his tongue in a small circle at the very centre of his lover’s palm. “You know where to find me then… right here…” The colour of Sherlock’s eyes darkened further as John repeated the gesture, feeling Sherlock’s fingers curl at the tickling of John’s tongue on his highly-sensitive skin. “In bed… nothing to do but think wicked thoughts.”

“Not going to work,” rumbled Sherlock, eyes focused upon John’s mouth.

“Sure?” Playfully, John pressed a slightly open-mouthed kiss to the pad of Sherlock’s thumb, just flicking the skin with his tongue-tip in the process. 

“Yes,” breathed Sherlock, slowly pulling his hand away, but John felt the undercurrent of his reaction through their connection, knew some of it was also his own arousal bleeding through. Rising, Sherlock straightened his suit jacket with a little tug, inhaled a bit more deeply than absolutely necessary, and ran his fingers through his hair. At John’s crooked little smile, the corner of Sherlock’s far too interesting mouth quirked in answer before he bent down again and pressed a gentle kiss… to John’s forehead. His voice was a low trickle of honeyed promise. “You are going to be repaid in kind later, John; do trust me in that.”

Not even trying to hide his wicked glee, John grinned cheekily. “Counting on it.”

If he hadn’t felt the pull of want and attraction through their connection, hadn’t recognised the few signs still showing in Sherlock’s behaviour, John might’ve believed there was serious annoyance in the narrow-eyed glare thrown at him as Sherlock reached the bedroom door. As it was, John only tucked his hands behind his head and stretched a little, making his deep sigh of relaxation as suggestive as possible. Sherlock made a nearly-growling little sound of irritated disgust and left; his usual near-silent tread easily audible going down the stairs.

John chuckled softly, fully aware Sherlock would hear it, and considered whether or not he felt like hauling his admittedly-tired arse downstairs to make something to eat. Moments later, the street door slammed, which John knew very well he was meant to hear. 

When John woke up later without any clear memory of having fallen back to sleep, it was dark, but he felt far less drained—a half-snort, half-snigger escaped him when the phrase passed through his mind—and much more like getting out of bed. After a shower and some other basic grooming, he put on his oldest, comfiest denims and a striped jumper that was both warm and cheery, then ambled out into the kitchen for some food. 

While his tea steeped and two ordinary slices of bread were becoming nice crispy toast, John leaned his backside against the worktop and yawned enormously, staring at the calendar on the wall without really processing any details. He was mentally going through the contents of the cupboards and fridge to decide if they had the proper ingredients for a ‘real’ meal, or maybe a hearty soup, when his somewhat divided attention caught up to the words written on the calendar’s little square representing the day before yesterday. On the date he and Sherlock had played their little game of tag with its explosive conclusion, was the word, _‘CATALYSIS’_ in Sherlock’s handwriting, followed by several sets of letters, or possibly initials, but more likely abbreviations: _‘QRP?’ ‘QMP - 9-ODA / 9-HDA?’ ‘P Ph / R Ph?’_ and then the word, _‘compare!’_ with a bold exclamation mark after it.

Ambling over to stand in front of the calendar, arms crossed over his chest and the first two fingers of one hand resting against his lips, John contemplated the cryptic scribbles. Catalysis, of course, he knew; the action of a catalyst, especially an increase in the rate of a chemical reaction. He went on to read the calendar square for the next day—yesterday—which had been decorated with the words, _‘Ph peak?’_ and a slightly less neat scrawl beneath of _‘ MDMA’_ with a single, firmly-drawn underscore. Today’s square had only two things written in: _‘Tolerable’_ and _‘Fatigued.’_

Sherlock was either jotting down reminders for himself about the progress of the physical reactions to their bond, or perhaps it was commentary meant for John to see and understand. Usually anything written on the kitchen calendar was for both of them—reminders, notes, requests to be available on a specific day—which made John lean toward the notes being something Sherlock intended John to see. There were no clear questions or instructions, just the minimal jotted words and letters. For all John knew, it may have been that Sherlock had a sudden thought and scribbled on the calendar because it was the nearest thing, but it seemed unlikely. More so the longer John thought about it.

“What the hell, Sherlock?” John murmured against his own fingers as he belatedly remembered that MDMA stood for the empathogenic drug Methylenedioxymethamphetamine, or, as it was more commonly known, ‘ecstasy.’ Was Sherlock comparing the reactions they were having to their connection to being drugged? It made a certain amount of superficial sense… a chemical reaction, triggered by a catalyst—John initiating their connection, at first; and then Sherlock’s vampiric bite—which had altered both their behavioural patterns. 

Frowning with a definite sense of unease at the ideas running around in his head, John heard his toast pop up and started to turn away, though the next square on the calendar caught his eye as he did so. Sherlock hadn’t written anything there, but the calendar was pre-printed with a little black circle in the bottom corner of the square and the words _‘New Moon.’_ It wasn’t until John was contemplatively buttering his toast that a vaguer than vague memory drifted through his head and he turned to stare at the calendar once again, his mind juggling concepts in an effort to pin down that elusive memory. The new moon, represented by a black circle… the dark of the moon. “Hunt the dark moon.” 

His own voice surprised him a little, even though it was a whisper, and his eyes widened as the memory finally clicked. A dream that didn’t quite feel like a dream, a voice speaking in a flowery, out-dated fashion, and John waking with the words on his own lips. “Well, bugger,” he sighed in frustration, all but tossing the butter knife into the sink as the rest of the memory came back to him; such as it was. “Because things just weren’t weird enough already.”


	28. Sherlock - Research, Indeed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _I would like to thank[Ladykarasu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ladykarasu) for giving this chapter a few thwackings with the Beta-Stick © for me. Anything still oopsed up is my fault, entirely._   
> 

Although Sherlock had once been an intermittent regular at many clubs, this particular one—whimsically named ‘The Liquorish Whip’ in the eighties and never changed—had seen his custom far more often than the rest. When Victor returned to England and turned up at the Liquorish Whip on several occasions, however, Sherlock had dropped the place from his rotation almost entirely; whether or not Victor’s patronage there had anything to do with him, Sherlock had learnt that lesson quite thoroughly. Not long afterwards, Sherlock had made several drastic changes in his life and lifestyle; consequently, his visits to such all such places dwindled to almost nothing. 

Despite the change in his habits, Sherlock was still well aware of the fact that gossip and information on a wide variety of topics, both human and otherwise, was regularly traded in the nightclubs, bars, lounges, and members-only specialty clubs. Keeping in touch with the general happenings, as a rule, had always served Sherlock well; so, even though they were no longer as big a part of his life, he made it a point to return to his old haunts now and then, so as not to lose all familiarity. Sherlock had often found it to be one of the best places to start in any investigation involving the other underworld beyond the human underworld. 

The Liquorish Whip was his fourth stop that evening, two of the previous being strictly BDSM-oriented establishments run by and for non-humans; he’d wanted to hit the places where having John’s fresh pheromone-heavy signature on his person would do him the most good. Having left the flat with the taste of John’s skin on his lips, as well as aroused and frustrated—despite the fact that he’d enjoyed that teasing parting exchange with John more than he’d let on—Sherlock gave off all the proper signs of a Vampire with a thrall already in his control, potentially on the prowl for another, or possibly simply looking for interim entertainment. A bit uncomfortable at first, though it had been necessary to his purpose, Sherlock couldn’t now deny enjoying the reactionary second glances, the subtle inhalations, and the shifts in body-posture as he wended his way through customers comprised of his kind and others at each place he’d thus far visited—John’s all too willing farewell embraces had imbued Sherlock’s skin and clothing quite thoroughly.

The atmosphere of the Liquorish Whip was far more casual than some of the other places Sherlock had visited thus far, even allowing Human patronage, if not actually _encouraging_ it, because its purpose was as a place to meet in between encounters or to arrange encounters. Sherlock was a little glad to have the more accostive social scenes behind him now, as he had gradually been finding the strain of being away from John more and more uncomfortable as the evening wore on. He took an odd sort of nearly-subconscious comfort in John’s scent lingering on his clothing, even on his skin, though it was strongest in the palm of his hand and on his thumb, where John had licked and teased him before letting him go. 

“Finally taken on a thrall, have you, my lovely Velvet?” Asked a familiar voice from just past Sherlock’s left shoulder. Though he’d smelled her approach, he let the illusion of surprise colour his expression. 

“Yma,” he murmured, drawling the initial ‘ee’ sound as he smoothly arranged for his palm to be where her fingers fell when she reached out with the controlled grace of a monarch. She had skin so deep a brown that it was black in the dim flicker and fade of the bleed-over lights from the dance pit, her eyes a light brown with a hint of gold and green—a striking contrast to her dark complexion. Her black hair currently framed her face, fell to her shoulders and halfway down her back, all of it bound into exceedingly fine braids, with glints of gold woven down some of the lengths and tiny gold beads at the ends of all. Faint metallic tinkles and taps accompanied all her movements. Her dress was a gossamer-thin sari in muted shades of rust, orange, gold, and olive, and her accent was such a mélange of Europe and North Africa that even Sherlock’s clever ear for accents couldn’t detect exactly where she had been born. She was older than he by a century, at least, and yet still appeared barely twenty.

“Tell me. You know you want to brag,” Yma urged on the cusp of a warm laugh, curling her fingers around his hand and bringing it up as if she might kiss it; instead, she inhaled with a delicate flare of nostrils. “Mmm… male. I suppose I ought to have guessed.”

“You know I don’t talk about my conquests,” he chastised in a wicked purr. Yma loved to flirt, knew many important members of the greater Houses—at least glancingly—and had been the second of the only three female lovers Sherlock had ever been with. She was almost brutally erotic in bed and wildly inventive, which had kept his interest for several months, but she had been ready to move on before he, thus they had parted amicably. “Though, were I inclined…” He brought her hand to his lips as he let the implied compliment end in her own thoughts, smelling that she was well-sated and still fond of fiery hot curries.

“You must bring him sometime, Velvet.” She did know his real name, but it was a habit of hers to give her favourites and lovers nicknames and then use no other for them thereafter. “For that matter, why have you left him while your bond is obviously so new?”

“It was a choice between taking the evening off or abusing my new toy too far,” he replied with more truth than lie, knowing the very strength of John’s scent was what proclaimed it a new bond, even if it wasn’t the thrall-bond everyone naturally assumed it to be. “Enough about my greedy nature. You must allow me to buy you a drink in return for answering some questions.”

“Ahhh, now it comes clear.” Shaking her head to the accompaniment of a soft metallic susurrus, she smiled knowingly, teeth startlingly bright, fangs showing more than a little in reaction to the pheromone-laden scent clinging to Sherlock. “Come, then. I shall indulge you for the price of that drink, as well as the pleasure of your company.” She led the way to a deeply-shadowed booth, one of which was always kept reserved for her when she visited the Liquorish Whip—the owner had been one of her on-again-off-again lovers for the last few decades—and Sherlock slid a bit more into the persona of the flirty ex-lover, playing to Yma’s own manner of fond humour. Her amused familiarity was not wholly an act, but he knew she enjoyed trading in the coin of reputation and rumour; it served her image well to have her lovers come to her and ply her with drinks, to show their continuing regard. They both knew it, and that he played along when he needn’t was as much a trade for anything she might be able to tell him as were the drinks.

As Sherlock and Yma flirted—she gossiping and he gradually circling around to the actual information he sought—several others who’d recognised Sherlock found excuses to drift by and offer greetings; since he wasn’t one for socialising unless it gained him something, he knew they were all there out of curiosity more than anything else. Those few who had noticed the veritable _cloud_ of endorphin-tinged pheromones that he still exuded, and who also knew what such a phenomenon usually meant, couldn’t help wondering; considering Sherlock was one of the few members of a Great House who’d never made a thrall and had made it plain he had no intention of ever doing so. He was cool, even rude, but that wasn’t anything new; had he been otherwise, it would have raised far more eyebrows and caused far more speculation.

“You’re almost glowing, Velvet,” Yma murmured a little while later as Sherlock drank slowly and considered his next strategic conversational topic. Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes at the hyperbole. Yma’s perfectly-painted lips curved in amusement. “Scoff all you like, darling, but you reek of pleasure and contentment, and I don’t mean just the sex. And, yes, that glow is very nearly tangible to those who recognise such things for what they are.”

“Always one for poetic excess, aren’t you, Yma?” drawled Sherlock on the cusp of amusement and mockery.

“Yes, yes, your pride, I know,” she replied in mellow dismissal. “Tell me what excites you these days, aside from your new toy.”

“The same things that bored you before,” Sherlock replied with just enough humour to keep it from being insulting. “Crime, criminals, experiments, etcetera.”

“I heard you’ve steered the authorities away from some of us in those crimes.” Yma lifted an eyebrow at Sherlock in a querying gesture reminiscent of one of his own. 

“As you well know,” he agreed coolly, inwardly pleased to have the perfect opportunity handed to him so neatly. “In point of fact, I’m currently looking into a murder that I’m almost certain was the work of one of us.” Yma looked interested, but there wasn’t the slightest ripple of concern or guilt of any kind—not that he would necessarily expect there to be in someone of her age, since she had long ago learned to school her features well—and he went on when she merely waited in expectant silence. “A Human confessed to the deed, but he was clearly a badly used blood-slave.”

The ancient custom of acquiring ‘blood-slaves’ had been outlawed by the Council of ruling Houses nearly a century before, primarily to avoid the increasingly-efficient forces of law-enforcement discovering proof of vampires’ existence. Concern for people being used against their wills was only the secondary reason, to be brutally honest; vampires were not, as a general rule, very philanthropic by nature. Thralls, unlike blood-slaves, were willing subjects to a vampire’s will, sharing their blood and usually their bodies, but receiving benefits physically and emotionally from the exchange, rendered by their bond. Blood-slaves were, as the name implied, unwilling victims held by coercion or mesmerism—often both—in the power of a vampire or vampires for the same basic uses as thralls, but they did not get anything back from their masters and/or mistresses. There was no bond, only enslavement. After what he had felt during the interview/interrogation, Sherlock now believed Paul Betancourt had been a blood-slave to Victor. 

“A blood-slave, not a thrall?” Yma’s surprised curiosity seemed genuine, perhaps even was. Just because they had been lovers did not mean Sherlock wholly trusted her, but he felt he knew her well enough to allow a certain level of confidence in her probable responses and actions; he’d also never known her to be on friendly terms with Victor, which afforded him a little more leeway. She shook her head and sipped her drink, sighing fatalistically. “Someone’s inviting trouble with the Council.”

“Indeed, possibly inviting it to visit us all.” Sherlock watched the rest of the club’s patrons as much, if not more, than he watched Yma as he spoke. “But, no, not a thrall; though he’d been used, both physically and mentally, to such a degree that he ought to have been made one long before, but wasn’t. Of that I’m reasonably certain.” It hardly behoved him to show all his cards, as it were, and if word got back to Victor, he wanted the man to think his plan had worked as he meant it to do; to think himself safe. 

“Mm. Well, what is your purpose, then, Velvet?” Yma’s eyes were speculative, seemingly more brown in the dimmer light, though the occasional reflection from the moving lights above the dancers would highlight her face for a moment and they seemed almost gold or green for an instant. “Are you working for us or for them?”

Calculating his answer, again not entirely lying, Sherlock tilted his head a bit as he shook it, fingers tracing patterns in the slight condensation along the curved side of his glass. “I am still a son of my House, Yma, however at odds I may be with my Elder. We are as much protectors as we are enforcers.”

“You want to get to them before the Humans do,” she surmised with a subtle nod. 

“What I _want_ is immaterial,” he rumbled harshly, more truth in the words than anything else he’d said to her thus far. “This matter practically fell into my lap; I can hardly ignore it.”

“What will happen to whoever’s been flouting Council law?” Yma’s voice softened, but lost all of its flirty, humorous edge. “Assuming you find them.”

Meeting her eyes, a grim, humourless smile curved his lips. “Luckily, that will not be my decision.” 

Yma’s brows lifted, and after only a flicker of an instant, her chin rose and fell in another small nod. “Elder Mycroft.” Her expression was both knowing and unsettled, though the latter was incredibly brief.

Sherlock’s nod was just as slight, though essentially redundant. A few minutes later he pressed an entirely perfunctory, but polite kiss to the back of Yma’s hand before excusing himself to make his way out of the club. 

He had a few more places to visit before returning home, despite how strong the pull to do so had become. Sherlock refused to let this mysteriously strong bond rule him entirely, no matter how much a large part of his inner self was enjoying it and what it had brought him.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fanart for Always Miss Something](https://archiveofourown.org/works/288823) by [PrettyArbitrary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyArbitrary/pseuds/PrettyArbitrary)




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